CHAPTER X.

Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed

Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

[Illustration:

GAY AND SERIOUS.

Engraved & Printed expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. Dainty]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. May, 1850. No. 5.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Shakspeare. Ulrici’s Discovery.—Analysis of Hamlet

A Gale in the Channel

Valentine Histories

The Game of Draughts

Life’s Lessons Teach Charity

Loiterings and Life on the Great Prairies of the

West

The Lady of the Rock (continued)

Home: or A Visit to the City

Spring Snipe Shooting of 1850

The Fine Arts

Review of New Books

Poetry and Music

Summer Friends

Lines

Spirit Of Hope

To Mrs. E. C. K.

The Valley of Shadow

The “Still Small Voice.”

To the Flower Hearts-Ease

Ballads of the Campaign in Mexico. No. IV

The Might of Song

The Mountain Spring

Happiness—A Sonnet

Sonnet.—From the Italian

No Joy I’ll See but in Those Smiles

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXVI. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1850. NO. 5.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

ULRICI’S DISCOVERY.—ANALYSIS OF HAMLET.

BY H. C. MOORHEAD.

MORE than half a century ago, one of Shakspeare’s most illustrious

commentators deemed it necessary to accompany the free expression of his

views with words like these:

“I am almost frighted at my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame

and the strength of those that maintain the contrary opinion, I am ready

to sink down in reverential silence, as Æneas withdrew from the defense

of Troy when he saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the

besiegers.”

But the enthusiastic study of Shakspeare was then just beginning. How

many antiquarians, book-worms and hypercritics have since toiled and

quibbled over him! how many philosophers have deeply meditated him! how

many ponderous volumes have been written upon him? How many great actors

have played him? How many nations have heard and read him? Surely this

mine, however deep and fruitful, must long since have yielded all its

treasures.

If, indeed, the shadows of mighty names could subdue the inquiring

spirit of this age to any degree of fear or reverence, the Shakspeare

student might now be content to receive, with implicit confidence, the

creed which has been written. But whilst the works of Nature are daily

undergoing new investigations, and receiving new illustrations, it is

fit that those works which of all human productions most resemble

them—the works of Shakspeare—should be subjected to a similar

scrutiny. And so they have been, and with results worthy of the days of

telegraphs and locomotives. A German critic, named Ulrici, has recently

made a discovery which as far surpasses all former Shaksperian

discoveries, as the voyage of Columbus surpassed the voyages of those

navigators who before him had timorously hugged the shore.

A writer in the North British Review, for November, 1849, explains the

subject briefly thus:

“Ulrici’s most remarkable discovery is, that each of Shakspeare’s plays

has for its foundation some moral idea or theme, which is reflected and

echoed over and over again with endless variety and profit, in all the

characters, expressions, and events of the piece. The subtle German

critic would have produced more converts to his doctrine had he

illustrated it fully by the analysis of some one play, instead of having

merely suggested its prevalence by means of a slight sketch in each.”

The reviewer, then, observing that Ulrici’s views had been received in

England with a “wide skepticism,” proceeds to prove them by analyzing

the “Merchant of Venice.” He also, incidentally, mentions the theme of

“Timon of Athens,” and of “Love’s Labor Lost.” Beyond this no hint is

given as to the “ground-idea” (as it is termed) of any of the plays; and

yet so palpable is Ulrici’s theory, that the writer of these pages,

after having read the reviewer’s remarks, found no difficulty in

applying it to any of the plays with which he was familiar, by simply

revolving them in his mind. As any person tolerably read in Shakspeare

may do the same, the “wide skepticism” above referred to must soon give

way to universal conviction, accompanied by astonishment that the

discovery was not sooner made, and the frank admission that Shakspeare

has been understood by Ulrici alone.

Our author has always been called the Poet of Nature; and the better he

is understood, the better he is found to deserve the title. The leading

features of all mountains, of all lakes and rivers, of all mankind, are

the same; yet in the whole world there are no two of either precisely

alike. The theme in each of Shakspeare’s plays is one—pervading every

part of it, and giving tone and color to the whole. Yet how endless the

variety of character, of action, of sentiment! So striking, indeed, is

the _diversity_, that the _unity_ has, for more than two hundred years,

been strangely overlooked; so consummate is the _art_, that it has

wholly “concealed the art.”

If we examine the play of Hamlet by the light of Ulrici’s torch, we

shall find that its subject, like its plot, is very comprehensive. Yet

there is in it a “central idea,” to which all the various topics

discussed are more or less intimately related. This idea may be

expressed by the single word DISCRETION—discretion in its most

comprehensive sense, as signifying, “prudence, discernment and judgment,

directed by circumspection.” I propose to show that with this idea every

incident, every character, every speech, I might almost venture to say,

every sentiment of the play is connected, by the relation either of

resemblance or of contrast.

It will be most convenient (on account of the intricacy of the play) to

examine the several scenes and speeches, in connection with different

aspects of the theme. I shall therefore employ the following division:

I. _Reserve_; contrasted with which (1) Extravagance of conduct and

language; (2) Espionage; (3) Inquisitiveness; (4) Flattery.

II. _Vacillation._

III. _Craft._

The reader will readily perceive that all these qualities have an

intimate relation with the quality of _discretion_, directly or by

contrast, in its use or its abuse. As it is Shakspeare’s custom to

pursue his subject into all its collateral branches, there are doubtless

many other modifications of the theme of Hamlet, but the above division

will answer our present purpose.

I. _Reserve._

In the second scene of Act First, the king and queen expostulate with

Hamlet on his immoderate grief for the death of his father; reminding

him that it is a common occurrence, and urging him to “cast his nighted

color off.” In the next scene, Laertes, who is about to embark for

France, makes a long speech to Ophelia, recommending throughout

_reserve_ in her conduct toward Hamlet:

The chariest maid is prodigal enough,

If she unmask her beauty to the moon.

The admirable speech of Polonius to Laertes, which immediately follows,

is composed of ponderous maxims, _all_ of the same import; as, for

example, “Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;” “Take each man’s

censure, but reserve thy judgment;” “Neither a borrower nor a lender

be,” etc., etc. And the scene closes with a speech from Polonius to

Ophelia, in which he cautions her respecting Hamlet, telling her to be

“somewhat scanter of her maiden presence,” etc.

In the next scene (the fourth) occurs Hamlet’s speech to Horatio on

drunkenness, which, it will be observed, in conformity with the theme,

turns entirely upon the _imprudence_ of the practice. In the fifth scene

of the same act, Hamlet, after his interview with the Ghost, baffles the

curiosity of Horatio and Marcellus. Not content with keeping his own

secret, and swearing them not to reveal what they had seen, he makes

them further promise that if he should see fit “to put an antick

disposition on,” they never will, “with arms encumbered thus, or this

head-shake, or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, as _Well, well,

we know_; or, _we could, and if we would_; or, _if we list to speak_, or

such ambiguous giving out,” intimate that they “knew aught of him.” In

the same scene the Ghost says: “I could a tale unfold,” etc. “But that I

am _forbid to tell_ the secrets of my prison-house.”

In the first scene of the third act, Hamlet’s rude speeches to Ophelia,

“Get thee to a nunnery,” etc., are mainly on the same subject; and the

next following scene contains the celebrated advice to the players,

every word of which inculcates _reserve_ or _moderation_; it teaches the

same lesson as the speeches of Polonius and Laertes, above referred to,

though it is applicable to very different circumstances. Hamlet’s speech

to Horatio, immediately after, is to the same purpose:

“Blessed are those

Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,

That they are not a pipe for fortune’s finger

To sound what stop she pleases; Give me that man

That is not passion’s slave,” etc.

In the same scene Rosencrantz and Guildenstern endeavor to find out

Hamlet’s secret; but he baffles and rebukes them with the beautiful

illustration of the flute:

_Ham._ Will you play upon this pipe?

_Guild._ My lord, I can not.

· · · · · · ·

_Ham._ Why look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me.

You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you

would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from

my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much

music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet can not you

make it speak. S’blood, do you think I am easier to be played on

than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can

fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Such are a few of the chief passages in which the lesson of “reserve” is

taught _directly_. The reader will find many others, (maxims,

illustrations and allusions,) in every scene; but I pass on to the

notice of some instances in which the same lesson is taught _indirectly_

or _by contrast_. These passages may properly be arranged under several

heads.

(1.) _Extravagance of conduct and language._

Hamlet is for the most part, calm and self-possessed. But on the

occasion of his first interview with the Ghost, in the 4th scene of the

first act he is transported (as, indeed, he well might be,) beyond all

bounds of moderation: in the words of Horatio:

He waxes desperate with imagination.

His speech to Laertes at the grave of Ophelia is a still more remarkable

example of _extravagance_:

Zounds, show me what thou’lt do;

Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself?

Woul’t drink up Esil? eat a crocodile?

I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine?

To outface me with leaping in her grave?

Be buried quick with her, and so will I.

And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw

Millions of acres on us; till our ground,

Singeing his pate against the burning zone,

Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth,

I’ll rant as well as thou.

Ophelia’s madness is caused by the _extravagance_ of her love; and it is

worthy of remark that she is finally drowned in consequence of

_venturing too far_ on the “pendent boughs” of a willow which grew

“ascaunt the brook.”

In the last scene Hamlet and Laertes, whilst playing with rapiers,

become “_incensed_,” and thus the final catastrophe is produced.

In the last scene of the second act Hamlet meets the players and makes

them recite Eneas’ tale to Dido. The only justification of this long and

otherwise tedious passage, will be found in its close connection with

the theme; for it is an admirable specimen of _bombast_.

Unequal matched,

Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage, strikes wide;

But with the whiff and wind or his fell sword

The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,

Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top

Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash

Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear, etc., etc.

How different this from Shakspeare’s _own_ style! We shall presently see

that the speeches of the _Player King_ and _Player Queen_ are direct

illustrations of another aspect of the theme; indeed every thing

connected with this “play within the play,” is directly to the main

purpose.

In the latter part of the first scene of act second Ophelia relates to

her father the wild conduct and appearance of Hamlet, and Polonius

attributes it to the _extravagance_ of his love:

This is the very ecstasy of love, etc.,

and descants on the “violent property” of that passion. Laertes, as we

have seen, could speak well in favor of reserve, but he seldom practiced

it. His conduct is generally violent, and his speech ranting; as in his

riotous appearance before the king in act fourth, scene fifth, and in

his contest with Hamlet at the grave of Ophelia.

(2.) _Espionage._

This method of ferreting out secrets is extensively practiced throughout

the play.

In the first scene of act second, Polonius instructs Reynaldo (who is

going to Paris), where Laertes then was, to “make inquiry of his

(Laertes’) behaviour;” to find out his associates, and by pretending to

know his vices—by “putting forgeries upon him,”—draw from them an

account of his way of life:

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of troth;

And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,

. . . . . . . .

By indirections find directions out.

In the next scene the king and queen employ Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

as spies upon Hamlet; and, to ascertain whether he loves Ophelia, the

king and Polonius agree to hide behind the arras, whilst the latter, as

he expresses it, “looses his daughter to him” in the lobby. Rosencrantz

and Guildenstern make several attempts to sound Hamlet, but, as they

report to the king and queen—act third scene first—he “with a crafty

madness keeps aloof.” In act third, scene fourth, Polonius again plays

the _eaves-dropper_ in order to overhear the conversation between Hamlet

and his mother, and Hamlet, hearing him, and supposing him to be the

king, makes a pass through the arras and kills him.

I took thee for thy better; take thy fortune;

Thou find’st, to be too busy, is some danger.

(3.) _Inquisitiveness._

Inquisitiveness is a very prevalent feature of the play. There are the

challenging of sentiments—ghost-seeing—the sending and receiving of

messages—soliloquies—(a species of self-examination,)—and the

conversation is to an unusual extent made up of questions and answers.

To this head may also be referred, (at any rate the reader will at once

recognize their relation to the central idea,) the _riddles_ of the old

grave-digger in the church-yard scene, (act fifth, scene first,) and his

witty _evasions_ of Hamlet’s questions. Also Hamlet’s refined

speculations, in which, as Horatio says, he “considers the matter too

curiously;” as, when he shows in act fourth, scene third, how a “worm

may go a progress through the guts of a beggar;” and “traces the noble

dust of Alexander till he finds it stopping a bung-hole,” in act fifth,

scene first; and in his reflections on the lawyer’s skull, and on that

of “poor Yorick.”

(4.) _Flattery._

In act third, scene third, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern vie with each

other in flattering the king. In act fourth, scene seventh, the king

flatters Laertes respecting his skill in fencing. Osric plays the

flatterer when he agrees with Hamlet first that it is very hot, then

cold, then hot again; and Polonius, when he sees the cloud in the shape

of a camel first, then of a weasel, and then of a whale, according as

Hamlet directs. In act second, scene second, Hamlet says to Rosencrantz:

“My uncle is king of Denmark; and those that would make mouths at him

while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an hundred ducats

a-piece for his picture in little.” And in act third, scene second, he

teaches the _use_ of flattery:

Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning.

II. _Vacillation._

Discretion, pushed to extremes, ends in _vacillation_, and this is the

leading trait in Hamlet’s character. His father’s ghost appears, tells

how he was “sleeping, by a brother’s hand cut off,” and enjoins on him,

as a solemn duty to avenge his death. Hamlet acknowledges the duty, and

resolves to perform it; he feels himself “prompted to his revenge by

heaven and hell,” and yet he shows from the first a painful

consciousness of his own infirmity of purpose.

The time is out of Joint; O cursed spite,

That ever I was born to set it right.

His numerous soliloquies are accordingly for the most part mere

developments of this trait of his character; and illustrations of the

inevitable tendency of meditation to beget inaction. The narrow or

bigoted mind, which either can not or will not see more than a single

feature of a subject, may well be prompt and decided; but whoever is

capable and willing to survey any great question in all its aspects,

will reach a firm conclusion,—if he reach it at all,—only by slow and

painful steps. Laertes, who is little better than a ranting madcap, no

sooner conceives a purpose, than he hastens to execute it; whilst

Hamlet, who is a calm philosopher, ponders, and procrastinates, and does

nothing.

In the last scene of act second, Hamlet, after having listened to the

recitation of a player, compares his own “motive and cue for passion,”

with that of a fellow, who spoke merely “in a fiction, in a dream of

passion;” and reproaches himself for coldness and inaction; but ends at

last in the conclusion that the spirit he had seen may be a devil, and

that he must have “grounds more relative than this.”

The next scene contains the great soliloquy on death. “To be or not to

be,” etc. On a former occasion Hamlet had exclaimed:

O that the Everlasting had not fixed

His canon ’gainst self-slaughter!

And he now concludes that the most profound meditation on the subject

merely

Puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of.

This soliloquy has sometimes been condemned as taking an unworthy and

inadequate view of the great subjects of death, and “that undiscovered

country” beyond the grave; and if it had been Shakspeare’s purpose to

_discuss_ these subjects, the criticism would undoubtedly be just. But

let us bear in mind that his object in this passage was simply to

illustrate “vacillation of mind” in connection with the highest subjects

of human contemplation, and we shall find that he has accomplished all

he undertook in a manner entirely worthy of himself.

Very similar to this is the king’s soliloquy on repentance, in act

third, scene third.

What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens

To wash it white as snow? . . . .

Then I’ll look up;

My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer

Can serve my turn? . . . .

Try what repentance can: What can it not?

Yet what can it, when one can not repent.

Throughout the whole speech the mind of the guilty monarch fluctuates

between hope and despair; and Hamlet, seeing him on his knees, exclaims:

“now might I do it, pat; and now I’ll do it;” but again falls to

moralizing, and puts it off to a more convenient season.

Hamlet’s first soliloquy, before he has seen the Ghost, (act first,

scene second,) turns on the queen’s _inconstancy_ in forgetting his

father and marrying his uncle so soon: “But two months dead!” “A beast

that wants discourse of reason, would have mourned longer.” And his

conversation with Horatio immediately after is to the same effect:

The funeral bak’d meats

Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

In his interview with the queen in act third, scene fourth, where he

compares the picture of his father with that of his uncle, he dwells on

the same topic. See also the dumb show in act third, scene second, and

the dialogue between the _Player King_ and _Player Queen_. Every line of

these speeches illustrates the theme.

_P. King._ I do believe you think what now you speak;

But, what we do determine oft we break.

. . . . . . . .

This world is not for aye: nor ’tis not strange

That even our loves should with our fortunes change.

. . . . . . . .

The great man down, you mark his favorite flies;

The poor advanced makes friends of enemies.

. . . . . . . .

For who not needs shall never lack a friend;

And who in want a hollow friend doth try,

Directly seasons him his enemy.

The _constancy_ of Hamlet’s father is throughout opposed to the

inconstancy of his mother. The Ghost on his first appearance dwells on

the subject:

From me, whose love was of that dignity

That it went hand in hand even with the vow

I made to her in marriage.

And after all the wrongs he has suffered, whilst enjoining upon Hamlet

to change his course, he charges him to contrive nothing against his

mother; and when he afterward appears at the interview between Hamlet

and the queen, he interposes in her behalf:

But look! amazement on thy mother sits;

O, step between her and her fighting soul.

The queen also, with all her faults, remains constant in her affection

for Hamlet, and “lives, almost, by his looks.” Ophelia is constant in

her love,—to insanity and a watery grave; and Hamlet makes fine

_speeches_ on constancy of purpose. His soliloquy in act first, scene

fifth, is in a noble strain:

“Remember thee!”

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat,

In this distracted globe. Remember thee?

Yea, from the table of my memory

I’ll wipe away all trivial, fond records,

. . . . . . . .

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain, etc.

But his “remembrance” is like that of a man who “beholdeth his natural

face in a glass, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what

manner of man he was.”

III. _Craft._

The word _craft_ properly signifies art, ability, dexterity, skill, as

well as cunning and dissimulation—and all these qualities have a close

relation to discretion.

The _pretended_ madness of Hamlet is therefore illustrative of the

theme; just as the _real_ madness of Lear is illustrative of the theme

of that play. The dissimulation of Hamlet, however, is not such as to

lessen our esteem for his character. Surrounded as he is with spies and

enemies, we feel that it is a justifiable stratagem. It is worthy of

remark that Edgar employs a similar means of defense in the Play of King

Lear; and that as Shakspeare’s love of contrast has led him thus to

oppose the assumed madness of Edgar to the real madness of Lear, so here

we have the real madness of Ophelia opposed to the assumed madness of

Hamlet.

Hamlet displays craft also (but still a justifiable craft,) in his

device of the play, “to catch the conscience of the king.” And when he

has succeeded, he triumphs in this proof of his own skill, with a very

natural vanity. “Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the

rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) etc., get me a fellowship in a

cry of players?” In his interview with his mother, (the picture scene,)

he dwells chiefly on her _want of discernment_; and, at the conclusion

of the scene, alluding to his “two schoolfellows,” he boasts that he

will “delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon;” a

feat which he very fully accomplishes. But after all he feels and

acknowledges that he is a mere instrument in the hands of a higher

power.

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,

When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us,

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them how we will.

And when Horatio endeavors to dissuade him from fencing with Laertes,

because he acknowledges a foreboding of evil he replies: “Not a whit, we

defy augury; there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If

it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come it will be now; if it

be not now, yet it will come; the readiness is all.” These solemn

sentiments were a fit prelude to the tragic fate upon which he was

rushing.

Polonius frequently boasts of his own discernment. As when he says to

the king:

Hath there been such a time (I’d fain know that,)

That I have positively said _’tis so_;

When it proved otherwise.

And though he was mistaken as to the cause of Hamlet’s madness, he

reasoned justly on the subject, and erred in his conclusion only because

there was a supernatural cause at work, which he could not penetrate.

The king also dwells on the same topic (skill or _management_,) in many

places, and especially in his several conversations with Laertes.

But I must hasten to a conclusion; hoping that I have awakened

sufficient interest in the reader’s mind to induce him to pursue the

subject with the play before him; and assuring him that he will find the

theme in some one of its various phases, ever present; from the

_sentinel’s challenge_ at the beginning, to the speech of Fortinbras on

_propriety_ at the end; in the love-letter of Hamlet; in the carol of

Ophelia; in the doggerel song of the old grave-digger; and every where

else.

A glance at the progress of the play will show that the theme, like the

plot and the characters, is gradually developed. A brief notice of the

contents of each act will make this apparent.

_Act first._—This act is wholly occupied with matters of an

_inquisitive_ character, and lectures on _reserve_ and _prudence_.

_Act second._—Craft is the characteristic of this act. Reynaldo is

appointed a spy upon Laertes: Hamlet begins to play the madman:

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are appointed spies upon Hamlet: Polonius

and the king resolve to secrete themselves where they can overhear

Hamlet talking with Ophelia: and Hamlet conceives the project of using

the players to make the king betray his own guilt. The object of all

these plots, however, it will be observed, is merely to gain

information.

_Act third._—In this act the several plots formed in the last, are

carried into execution.

_Act fourth._—Here the subject assumes a more serious aspect; Ophelia’s

indiscreet love ends in madness and death: Laertes, who has heretofore

discoursed like a philosopher on moderation, now becomes furious,

bearding the king on his throne; if craft is employed it is no longer

for the mere purpose of finding out secrets, but for the destruction of

life; as when the king sends Hamlet to England, to be put to death; and

when, on his unexpected return, Laertes and the king concert his death

by means of the treacherous fencing-match.

_Act fifth._—_Inquisitiveness_ now assumes a more intricate form in the

old grave-digger’s riddles, and in Hamlet’s refined speculations.

_Credulity_ (as Horatio’s account of prodigies in the first act,)

becomes _bigotry_ in the priest who buried Ophelia, and _faith in a

special Providence_ in Hamlet. Foppery and affectation reach their

height in Osric; discretion assumes its highest form in Hamlet’s frank

apology to Laertes, and in his anxiety lest he should leave a “wounded

name” behind him; Horatio crowns his _constancy_ by resolving to die

with his friend; and _ungoverned passion_ produces the scandalous

conflict at Ophelia’s grave, and the scuffle in fencing, which is the

immediate forerunner of the bloody catastrophe. The change of rapiers

has been condemned as a bungling device; but was it not most probably

designed to illustrate the theme, showing, as it does, the blind and

heedless rage of the combatants?

It is manifest that Ulrici’s method of reading these plays must lead to

a re-consideration of the most important criticisms which have

heretofore been made upon them. The propriety and relevancy of each part

being considered with reference to the “central idea,” many apparent

anomalies will be reconciled, and many imputed faults vindicated. A new

value will also be given to them; for, viewed in this light, the masters

of eloquence,—the Senator, the Advocate, and the Preacher,—may, from

these models, learn how to discuss a theme, or conduct a discussion. The

poet rambles through all nature, yet never for one moment forgets his

purpose; now he convulses us with laughter, and now melts us to tears;

now fires us with indignation, and now chills us with horror; yet ever,

amidst these various and conflicting emotions, steadily pursues his

_argument_. Every speech is to the same purpose, and yet there is no

repetition; and, though he perseveres till the subject is wholly

exhausted, our interest seldom for one moment languishes. Let him,

therefore, who would see Logic, and Rhetoric, and Poetry in their most

perfect form and combination, repair to the pages of SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

SUMMER FRIENDS.

THEY came—like bees in summer-time,

When earth is decked with flowers,

And while my year was in its prime

They reveled in my bowers;

But when my honey-blooms were shed,

And chilling blasts came on,

The bee had with the blossom fled:

I sought them—they were gone.

They came—like spring-birds to the grove,

With varied notes of praise,

And daily each with other strove

The highest strain to raise;

But when before the frosty gale

My withered leaves were strown,

And wintry blasts swept down the vale,

I sought them—they were gone.

I. G. B.

* * * * *

LINES.

BY GEO. D. PRENTISS.

SWEET moon, I love thee, yet I grieve

To gaze on thy pale orb to-night;

It tells me of that last dear eve

I passed with her, my soul’s delight.

Hill, vale and wood and stream were dyed

In the pale glory of thy beams,

As forth we wandered, side by side,

Once more to tell love’s burning dreams.

My fond arm was her living zone,

My hand within her hand was pressed,

And love was in each earnest tone,

And rapture in each heaving breast.

And many a high and fervent vow

Was breathed from her full heart and mine,

While thy calm light was on her brow

Like pure religion’s seal and sign.

We knew, alas! that we must part,

We knew we must be severed long,

Yet joy was in each throbbing heart,

For love was deep, and faith was strong.

A thousand memories of the past

Were busy in each glowing breast,

And hope upon the future cast

Her rainbow hues—and we were blest.

I craved a boon—oh! in that boon

There was a wild, delirious bliss—

Ah, didst thou ever gaze, sweet moon,

Upon a more impassioned kiss?

The parting came—one moment brief

Her dim and fading form I viewed—

’Twas gone—and there I stood in grief

Amid life’s awful solitude.

Tell me, sweet moon, for thou canst tell,

If passion still unchanged is hers—

Do thoughts of me her heart still swell

Among her many worshipers?

Say, does she sometimes wander now

At eve beneath thy gentle flame,

To raise to heaven her angel-brow

And breathe her absent lover’s name!

Oh when her gentle lids are wet,

I pray thee, mark each falling gem,

And tell me if my image yet

Is pictured tremblingly in them!

Ay, tell me, does her bosom thrill

As wildly as of yore for me—

Does her young heart adore me still,

Or is that young heart changed like thee?

Oh let thy beams, that softest shine,

If still my love to her is dear,

Bear to her gentle heart from mine

A sigh, a blessing, and a tear.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF HOPE.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

Enchantress, come! and charm my cares to rest.

HOW shall I lure thee to my side again,

Thou, who wert once the Angel of my Youth?

Thou, who didst woo me with thy blandest strain—

Tinting wild Fancy with the hues of Truth;

Whose plumy shape, floating in rosy light,

Showered purest pearl-drops from its fairy wing,

Making earth’s pathway like the day-star bright,

Thou charmer rare of life’s enchanted spring!

Fair were the scenes thy radiant pencil drew,

When on my eyes the early beauty broke:

And thy rich-ringing lyre, when life was new,

A glowing rapture in my bosom woke.

Then thy gay sister Fancy made my dreams

Lovely, and lightsome as the summer-hours,

And in her fairy loom wrought hues and gleams

That clothed the Ideal in a robe of flowers.

_Now_, thou hast vanished from my yearning sight—

Thou comest no more in melting softness drest—

No more thou weavest sweet visions of delight,

No charm thou bring’st to lull my heart to rest.

The bloom has faded from thy face, dear Hope—

The light is lost—the shadow comes not back!

Thy green oasis-flowers no more re-ope,

To scatter fragrance o’er life’s desert track.

Oh, angel-spirit of my perished years!

Thy early memory stands before me now:

Ah! by _that_ memory, which so fair appears,

Unveil once more the beauty of thy brow;

Come—if I have not _quite_ outlived thee—come!

And bid thy rival dark Despair depart—

_His_ touch has left me blind and deaf and dumb—

Bring _thou_ one ray of sunshine to my heart!

* * * * *

A GALE IN THE CHANNEL.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” ETC.

IT was on a sunny day in the winter of 183-, that we dropped down the

Mersey and took our leave of Liverpool. Our vessel was a new ship of

seven hundred tons; and as she spread, one after another, her folds of

white canvas to the breeze, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful

sight. The scene around was lively and inspiriting. Innumerable craft of

all sizes covered the waters far and near: here, a large merchantman

moving like a stately swan, there, a light yacht skimming along with the

swiftness of a swallow. The sunlight sparkled and danced on the billows;

the receding coast grew more picturesque as we left it astern; and the

blue expanse of the Irish channel stretched away in front, until lost in

a thin haze on the opposite horizon.

I had been reading below for several hours, but toward nightfall went on

deck again. How I started at the change! It was yet an hour to sunset,

but the luminary of day was already hidden in a thick bank of clouds,

that lay stretched ominously along the western seaboard. The wind had

increased to a smart gale, and was laden with moisture. The billows

increased in size every minute, and were whitening with foam far and

near. Occasionally as a roller struck the ship’s bows, the white spray

flew crackling over the forecastle, and sometimes even shot into the

top: on these occasions a foreboding, melancholy sound, like the groan

of some huge animal in pain, issued from the thousand timbers of the

vessel. Already, in anticipation of the rising tempest, the canvas had

been reduced, and we were now heading toward the Irish coast under

reefed topsails, courses, a spanker and jib.

“A rough night in prospect, Jack!” I said addressing an old tar beside

me.

“You may well say that, sir,” he replied. “It’s bad on the Norway coast

in December, and bad going into Sandy Hook in a snow-storm; but both are

nothing to a gale in the channel here,” he added, as a sudden whirl of

the tempest covered us with spray.

“I wish we had more sea room,” I answered musingly.

“Ay! I’d give the wages of the voyage if we had. How happy you all

seemed in the cabin, sir, the ladies especially, an hour or two ago—I

suppose it was because we are going home—ah! little did any of us

think,” he added, with a seriousness, and in a language uncommon for a

sailor, “that we might be bound to another, and a last home, which we

should behold first.”

At this moment the captain shouted to shorten sail, and our conversation

was of necessity cut short. The ship, I ought to have said, had been

laid close to the wind, in order to claw off the English coast, to which

we were in dangerous propinquity; and, as the gale increased, the heavy

press of canvas forcing her down into the water, she struggled and

strained frightfully. While the crew were at work, I walked forward. The

billows, now increased to a gigantic size, came rolling down upon us one

after another, with such rapidity that our good craft could scarcely

recover from one before another was upon her. Each time she struck a

head-sea she would stagger an instant, quivering in every timber, while

the crest of the shattered wave would shoot to the fore-top like the jet

of a fountain: then, the vast surge sinking away beneath her, she would

settle groaning into the trough of the sea, until another billow lifted

her, another surge thundered against her bows, another shower of foam

flew over her. Now and then, when a more colossal wave than usual was

seen approaching, the cry “hold on all” rang warningly across the decks.

At such times, the vast billow would approach, its head towering in the

gathering twilight, until it threatened to engulf us; but, just when all

seemed over, our gallant ship would spring forward to meet it, like a

steed started by the spur, and the mountain of waters would break over

and around us, hissing, roaring and flashing by, and then sinking into

the apparently bottomless gulf beneath us.

Meanwhile the decks were resounding with the tread of the sailors, as

they hurried to and fro in obedience to the captain’s orders; while the

rattling of blocks, the shouts of command, and the quick replies of the

seamen, rose over the uproar of the storm.

“Let go bowlines,” cried the stentorian voice of the captain, “ease off

the tack—haul on the weather-braces.”

Away went the huge sail in obedience to the order.

“Ease off the sheet—haul up to lee!”

The crew redoubled their quickness; and soon the immense courses were

stowed. In a few minutes the ship’s canvas was reduced to reefed

topsails, spanker, and fore-topmast staysail. By this time evening had

set in, though the long twilight of that latitude prolonged a sickly

radiance.

But even this contraction of sail was not sufficient. The thick duck

tugged at the yards, as if it would snap them in two. Every moment I

expected to see the spanker go.

“We must take in that sail,” said the captain finally, “or she will tear

herself to pieces. All hands in with the spanker.”

In an instant the men were struggling with the huge sheet of canvas; and

never before had I been so forcibly impressed with the power and

usefulness of discipline. In an incredibly short interval the gigantic

sail, notwithstanding its struggles, was got under control, and safely

stowed.

The ship now labored less for awhile, but, as the storm increased, she

groaned and struggled as before. The captain saw it would not do to

carry even the little sail now remaining, for, under the tremendous

strain, the canvas might be continually expected to be blown from the

bolt-ropes. And yet our sole hope lay in crowding every stitch, in order

to claw off the English coast! The sailor will understand this at a

word, but to the landsman it may require explanation.

Our danger, then, consisted in having insufficient sea room. If we had

been on the broad Atlantic, with a hundred or two miles of ocean all

around us, we could have lain-to under some bit of a head-sail, or

fore-topmast sky-sail for instance, or a reefed fore-sail. But when a

vessel lies-to, or, in other words, faces the quarter whence the wind

comes, with only enough canvas set to steer her by, she necessarily

drifts considerably, and in a line of motion diagonal to her keel. This

is called making lee-way. Most ships, when lying-to in a gale, drill

very rapidly, sometimes hundreds of miles if the tempest is protracted.

It is for this reason that a vessel in a narrow channel dares not

lie-to, for a few miles of lee-way would wreck her on the neighboring

coast. The only resource, in such cases, is to carry a press of sail,

and head in the direction whence the wind comes, but not near so close

to it as in lying-to. This is called clawing off a lee-shore. A constant

struggle is maintained between the waves, which set the vessel in the

same track they are going themselves, and the wind, which urges her on

the opposite course. If the canvas holds, and the ship is not too close

to the shore under her lee, she escapes: if the sails part, she drives

upon the fatal coast before new ones can be got up and bent. Frequently

in such cases the struggle is protracted for hours. It is a noble yet

harrowing spectacle to see a gallant ship thus contending for her life,

as if an animated creature, breasting surge after surge, too often in

vain, panting, trembling and battling till the very last.

The captain did not appear satisfied with taking in the spanker; indeed,

all feared that the ship could not carry what sail was left.

Accordingly, he ordered the topsails to be close-reefed. Yet even after

this, the vessel tore through the waters as if every moment she would

jerk her masts out. The wind had now increased to a perfect hurricane.

It shrieked, howled and roared around as if a thousand fiends were

abroad on the blast.

In moments of extreme peril strong natures gather together, as if by

some secret instinct. It was in this way that the captain suddenly found

himself near the old topman, whom I had been conversing with in the

early part of the evening, and who, it appeared, was one of the oldest

and best seamen in the ship.

The captain stood by the man’s side a full minute without speaking,

looking at the wild waves that, like hungry wolves, came trooping down

toward us.

“How far are we from the coast?” he said at last.

“Perhaps five miles, perhaps three, sir!” quietly replied the man.

“And we have a long run to make before we get sea-room,” said the

captain.

“We shall all be in eternity before morning,” answered the man,

solemnly.

The captain paused a moment, when he replied,

“Our only hope is in the topsail-clews—if they give way, we are indeed

lost—God help us!”

“Amen!” I answered, involuntarily.

Silence now ensued, though none of us changed our positions. For myself,

I was occupied with thinking of the female passengers, soon, perhaps, to

be the prey of the wild waters. Every moment it seemed as if the

topsails would give way, she strained so frightfully. It was impossible

to stand up if exposed to the full force of the gale. So we sheltered

ourselves in the waist as we best could. The wind as well as spray,

however, reached us even here, though in diminished violence, the latter

stinging the face like shot thrown against it. It seemed to me, each

minute, as if we made more lee-way. At last, after half an hour’s

suspense, I heard the surf breaking, with a noise like thunder, on the

iron-bound coast to the eastward. Again and again I listened, and each

time the awful sound became more distinct.

I did not mention my fears, however, for I still thought I might be

mistaken. Suddenly the captain looked up.

“Hark!” he said.

He stood with his finger raised in the attitude of one listening

intently, his eyes fixed on the face of the old sailor.

“It is the sound of breakers,” said the seaman.

“Breakers on the lee-quarter!” cried the look-out at this instant, his

hoarse voice sounding ominously across the night.

“Breakers on the lee-beam!” answered another.

“Breakers on the lee-bow!” echoed a third.

All eyes peered immediately into the darkness. A long line of foam was

plainly visible, skirting quite round the horizon to leeward.

“God have mercy on our souls!” I involuntarily ejaculated.

The captain sprung to the wheel, his eye flashing, his whole frame

dilated—for he had taken a sudden and desperate resolution. He saw

that, if no effort was made, we should be among the breakers in twenty

minutes; but if the mainsail could be set, and made to hold for half an

hour, we might yet escape. There were nine chances to one that the sail

would split the instant it was spread, and in a less terrible emergency

he would have shrunk from the experiment; but it was now our only hope.

“Keep her to it!” he shouted; “keep her well up. All hands to set the

main-course!”

Fortunately we were strong-handed, so that it would not be necessary to

carry the tack to the windlass, notwithstanding the gale. A portion of

the crew sprung to man this important rope; the remainder hurried up the

rigging, almost disappearing in the gloom overhead.

In less than a minute the huge sail fell from the yard, like a gigantic

puff of white smoke blown from the top. It struggled and whipped

terribly, but the good ropes held fast.

“Brace up the yard—haul out the bowline!” thundered the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir!” and it was done.

“Haul aft!”

The men ran off with the line, and the immense sheet came to its place.

This was the critical moment. The ship feeling the additional

propulsion, made a headlong plunge. I held my breath. I expected nothing

less than to see the heavy duck blown from the yard like a gossamer; but

the strong fabric held fast, though straining awfully.

“She comes up, don’t she?” interrogated the captain of the man at the

helm.

“Ay, ay, sir—she does!”

“How much?”

“Two points, sir!”

“If she holds for half an hour,” ejaculated the captain, “we may yet be

saved.”

On rushed the noble ship, seeming to know how much depended on her. She

met the billows, she rose above them, she struggled perseveringly

forward. In five minutes the breakers were visibly receding.

But hope had been given only to delude us. Suddenly I heard a crack,

sharper than an explosion of thunder, and simultaneously the course

parted from its fastenings, and sailed away to leeward, like a white

cloud driven down the gale.

A cry of horror rose from all. “It is over!” I cried; and I looked

around for a plank, intending to lash myself to it, in anticipation of

the moment for striking.

When the course went overboard, the head of the ship fell off

immediately; and now the wild breakers tumbled and roared closer at hand

each moment.

Suddenly the captain seized my arm, for we were holding on almost side

by side.

“Ha!” he cried, “is not that dark water yonder?” and he pointed across

our lee-bow.

I looked in the direction to which he referred. Unless my eyes deceived

me, the long line of breakers came to an abrupt termination there, as if

the shore curved inwards at that point.

“You are right—there is a deep bay ahead,” I cried, joyfully. “Look!

you can see the surf whitening around the cape.”

The whole crew simultaneously detected this new chance of escape. Though

unable to head to the wind as before, there was still a prospect that we

could clear the promontory. Accordingly, the next few minutes were

passed in breathless suspense. Not a word was spoken on board. Every eye

was fixed on that rocky headland, around which the waters boiled as in

the vortex of a maelstrom.

The ship seemed conscious of the general feeling, and struggled, I

thought, more desperately than ever. She breasted the huge billows with

gallant perseverance, and though each one set her closer to the shore,

she met the next wave with the same stubborn resolution. Nearer, nearer,

nearer we drilled toward the fatal cape. I could now almost fling a

biscuit into the breakers.

I had noticed a gigantic roller coming for some time, but had hoped we

might clear the cape before it reached us. I now saw the hope was in

vain. Towering and towering, the huge wave approached, its dark side

almost a perpendicular wall of waters.

“Hold on all!” thundered the captain.

Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then,

with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was

swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and

hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we

drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong

man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I

closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I

looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before

us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer.

“By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich

would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t

made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!”

And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of

pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much

composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at

the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he

remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years

before.

“Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my

next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the

fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.”

“Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.”

* * * * *

TO MRS. E. C. K.

BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN.

LADY, when first upon my listening ear

Thy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced,

And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glanced

Adown Time’s darkening track, and as it hung

Upon the magic numbers, seemed to hear

The lay that erst to Lycidas was sung,

By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs

Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy

Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs

All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee;

But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream,

Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek,

Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam

As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak

Are images of manhood’s pride and fame

That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim,

Where genius, wit, and poesy divine,

Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine.

* * * * *

VALENTINE HISTORIES.

BY S. SUTHERLAND.

FLORENCE HASTINGS sat alone in one of the spacious apartments of her

uncle’s stately mansion in —— square. The luxuriously cushioned sofa

was drawn quite close to the cheerful grate-fire, while the pale cheek

of its occupant, and the slight form almost hidden in the folds of a

large shawl, betokened an invalid. And such in reality was our young

heroine. Fresh in her memory, and consequently in its effects upon her

personal appearance, was a lingering and dangerous illness, and barely

three weeks had elapsed since the crisis was safely past, and she had

been pronounced convalescent.

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table

beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an

unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around

the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing

before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of

the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while

something glittering and dewy—something greatly resembling _a

tear-drop_, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could

it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings,

the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early

age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet

mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period

she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for

the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and

guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile

establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well

assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her

desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as

she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the

gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over

her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind

of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this

point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame

upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in

manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a

quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to

ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So

in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had

not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said

that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in

doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and

apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by

inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose

bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where

she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond

her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever

extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the

fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling

atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that

animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to

retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the

gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed,

and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured

tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in

spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the

sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to

whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded

in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence.

A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

“Beat the bars

With burning wing and passionate song,

And pour to the benignant stars

The earnest story of its wrong.”

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no

human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs.

Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have _cared_,

that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such

seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would

have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned

earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest

token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been

superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and

with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid

progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate,

it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary

located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr.

Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his

wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton

was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank,

gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but

genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her

soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school

which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence

“the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while

the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected,

for they said she was cold and proud—

“Proud of her pride,

And proud of the power to riches allied;”

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently

absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her,

what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a

heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would

meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but

the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives,

who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been

her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of

its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the

South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to

the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first

mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing

colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the

young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed,

a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality

which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a

vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of

feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be

supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of

things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who

loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself

along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal

of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of

the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece

gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first

inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the

servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one

another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s

lively sallies to their master and mistress, and _talked_ their

astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the

sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled

silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of

Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for

more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated

beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the

ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all

appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s

introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done,

over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and

when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of

union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they

were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of

life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with

Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries

that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately

uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success.

Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her

heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little,

soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the

art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by

faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s

fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and

dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During

that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and

while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments

of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute

annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright

face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was

never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton

would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the

reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her

coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these

spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was

the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears

that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her,

and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following,

characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which

the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds

previously.

This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,

That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;

And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,

Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;

Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by—

Must sunless ever be _my_ spirit’s sky?

And yet they deem me reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would _show_

The wish for blessings it may never know?

Watchful and wary of each look and word,

Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn

The feelings that within so oft are stirred,

That such emotions in my bosom burn,

Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,

And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

_Alone!_ What weary thoughts at that word throng,

Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,

Yet it shall be the burthen of my song

Until I rest within the quiet grave;

No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known—

And I must still live on unloved—alone!

They call me cold and reckless of the love

Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain

At the strange picture of a mind above

All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;

How can they dream my proud, high heart would show

The wish for blessings it may never know!

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound

of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant

there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and

assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder

enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her

hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The

latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world

could have taken the trouble to write _her_ a valentine? But the query

was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely

familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant

withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for

a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the

astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to

Florence.”

Hearest thou my spirit chanting

At the portals of thy heart?

’Tis to cross that threshold panting—

Pining—bid it not depart.

List not to its prayer unheeding,

Entrance though it seeks to win—

When it rises softly pleading,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

From a world of care and sadness,

From its shadows and its sin,

For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Ah! within that mansion holy,

May its nobler life begin?

Turn not from its pleadings lowly,

Prithee, prithee take me in!

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—_doubly_

earnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida

Hamilton wrote thus:

“It must, doubtless, seem very bewildering to you, Florence,

that I should have taken the liberty of addressing a Valentine

to one between whom and myself there has not hitherto existed an

intimacy sufficiently familiar to warrant the presumption. But

when, in excuse for my boldness, I plead my sincere wish for a

nearer intimacy, my earnest desire to call you by the holy and

tender name of _friend_—you will forgive me, will you not,

_dear_ Florence?

“For the past three years, dearest Florence, your image has

haunted and troubled me—haunted me, because, from the moment of

our first meeting, I have felt my heart irresistibly drawn

toward you—troubled me, because the belief of others, and their

oft-repeated assurance that you were totally destitute of warmth

of character, could not consequently be aught but a source of

pain. For this I must also crave your forgiveness, for I know

now that in having for a time given credence to such assertions,

I did you a grievous wrong.

“For the last few months I have watched you closely, Florence,

though you little dreamed yourself the object of my scrutiny. I

have ascertained that you are not the statue-like being you have

been represented, and, indeed, appear—that you are in reality

‘Not cold, but pure—not proud, but taught to know

That the heart’s treasure is a holy thing.’

“You are not aware that once, when you imagined yourself quite

unobserved, I beheld you bending tearfully over the miniature of

that dear parent whom God so early recalled to his heavenly

mansions—that I saw you press your lips to it wildly and

passionately; and though you spoke but the simple word “Mother!”

the tone in which that word was uttered, was the revelation that

I sought. And from that moment I found it easy to realize how

the chilling atmosphere of my aunt’s domicil had operated upon

your gentle heart, while I felt that had _I_ been transplanted

to my present abode at an earlier and more impressible age, I,

too, should have learned to wear a mask similar to that which

concealed your ardent and sensitive spirit. And the discovery

that brought such joy to my soul, gave new life to its former

yearnings for your friendship. But toward myself you had never

evinced the slightest token of preference—wearing in my

presence the exterior which deceived all others; and I could not

offer advances which I feared might be intrusive and unwelcome.

So I strove to content myself with a silent interest in all your

motions, and never until your recent illness allowed myself to

imagine that the affection of a faulty, wayward heart like mine,

would prove to you an acceptable gift. The occasion to which I

refer was during one of my visits to your sick chamber, when, as

I rose to leave you, you clasped my hand for the first time with

a pressure, while as I spoke formally enough, my pleasure at

seeing you recovering so rapidly, a faint color suffused your

cheek. It faded instantly, however, and your wonted

self-possession returned; but not before my heart had

experienced a thrill of delight at the hope, delusive though it

may have been, of winning your regard at some future day. It is

that hope which has given me courage for my present

proceeding—it has emboldened me to ask whether we may not

become friends—become _dear_ friends, Florence?

“In conclusion, I would say to you that I have to-day received a

letter from a distant relative, who lives at the South, urgently

pressing me to come and reside with her till the friends of my

early youth return from abroad. She writes to me in a spirit of

genial, heart-breathed kindness, very welcome to my thirsting

soul—and her letter is different, indeed, from the

precisely-worded epistle in which my aunt invited me to become a

member of _her_ household. It rests with you, Florence, to tell

me whether I shall go or stay. My present abode has never been a

congenial one; but _your_ friendship would cast a heart-glow

around it, and render me perfectly content to remain where I am.

“I await with impatience your answer. If it should prove that I

have had but a pleasant vision, too bright and sweet ever to be

realized, be at least frank with me, Florence, as I have been

with you.

“IDA.”

Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read,

her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those

moments in life

“When such sensations in the soul assemble

As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.”

And with scarce an instant’s delay, she traced the following reply.

“Do not leave me, Ida. Heaven bless you for your generous

avowal—for your sweet offer of affection! Oh! if you could but

imagine how intensely happy it has made me! I have always loved

_you_, though I scarcely dared confess it even to myself, for I

never dreamed that I could be an object of interest to any one.

My life has hitherto been _so_ sad, and dark, and desolate; and

my proud efforts to conceal from view the yearning for sympathy

and appreciation that possessed my soul, have given me an apathy

of manner which could not but prove repelling to those with whom

chance brought me in contact. _You_ alone have read me

aright—you alone know that I am not what I seem; that

discipline and not nature, is shadowed forth in my outward

demeanor.

“Come, then, to me, darling, and let me reveal myself to you

_more_ fully. Let me fold you to my bosom, and then, while I

confess how precious to my soul is the promise of your true and

earnest friendship, you will forget that to _you_ at least I

have ever seemed

“THE ICEBERG.”

Florence had just finished her answer when the servant came for it, and

this time her voice trembled perceptibly, as she repeated to the

messenger her desire to see Miss Hamilton as soon as she had perused it.

Five minutes elapsed; Florence, meanwhile, impatiently pacing the

apartment, her usually colorless cheek deeply flushed, and her dark eyes

glowing with an excitement that was destined speedily to end in

happiness the most perfect she had known since early childhood. At

length there was a light, hurrying tread upon the stair; nearer and

nearer it drew—and in another instant the door of Florence’s apartment

was hastily unclosed, and Ida Hamilton stood before her! There was a

quick burst of tears on the part of each; then Florence Hastings sprung

forward and clasped her newly found friend to her heart, returning her

caresses with impassioned fondness, and in tones that thrilled to the

inmost soul of her companion, murmuring, “Ida—my own Ida! Darling,

darling Ida!”

The Iceberg was irremediably _thawed_.

* * * * *

There is a cosy family party assembled in the well-lighted parlors of

Mr. Gordon’s dwelling, in —— street. It is the anniversary of his

wedding-day. Upon the festival of St. Valentine, exactly nine-and-forty

years ago, (for Mr. Gordon has passed the allotted “three score and

ten,”) as his wife, he brought to his then humble abode a lovely and

sunny-souled maiden of eighteen, now metamorphosed into the gray-haired

matron by his side, who has proved his genial partner through all life’s

joys and sorrows—the still blithe and sweet-voiced Grandma Gordon. From

time immemorial, the members of Mr. Gordon’s family, from far and near,

have gathered together upon this especial occasion. His own immediate

household had consisted originally of five sons and as many daughters;

and though some of these now rested beneath the sod, in their place had

arisen a numerous flock of grandchildren—and a prouder boast still, he

had lived to pet, and I had almost said _spoil_, no less than two

bright-eyed and most wonderful _great_-grandchildren—to wit, Master

Benjamin Franklin Gordon, or little Bennie, as everybody calls him, a

promising young gentleman of some three or four summers, and Helen

Gordon Bond, a most precocious young lady, who is now gliding rapidly

onward toward her second birthday. Both these important juveniles are

present upon this particular occasion. Grandfather Gordon, himself a

silvery-haired, benevolent-featured old man, (in appearance precisely

such a grandsire as the genius of a Waldmuller would have delighted to

immortalize upon canvas,) was seated in a capacious and well-cushioned

arm-chair by the fire. Occupying with becoming dignity the post of honor

upon his knee is little Helen, while Bennie Gordon has perched himself

upon one arm of his grandfather’s chair, and is teasing him for the

information whether the little toy-watch he holds in his hand—his first

assumption of manliness—is wound up or wound _down_.

It will be, perhaps, proper to introduce the reader to a portion of the

assembled family group. Yonder, upon the sofa, sit the two elder sons of

Mr. Gordon, busily engaged in a discussion upon the merits of last

year’s Art-Union exhibition. Alfred, the senior, is the _genuine_

grandfather of little Bennie.

That lady, who is just about leaving her station at the piano, is the

parent of little Helen. She is a sweet, fair creature, so childlike in

appearance, that it is difficult to recognize her as a wife and mother.

She has just been singing, “Be kind to the loved ones,” with a grace and

feeling that touched all hearts.

Next we behold a group of some half a dozen little girls, huddled

together in a corner, in most sociable proximity to one another. Katie

Wilmot, at present the “leading member,” a rosy, chatty little

curly-pate, is detailing most eloquently her experience of Santa Claus’s

last donation visit, while the others are patiently waiting their turn

to relate how lavishly he supplied their stockings.

Those two maidens of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, seated upon the

ottoman, with their arms very lovingly entwined round one another, are

Mabel Wilmot and Fanny Gordon, light-hearted school-girls and

affectionate cousins—inseparable companions whenever a happy chance

throws them together. But, alas! their opportunities of intercourse have

as yet been “few and far between,” for Mabel’s home is in the country,

many miles distant. The cousins have recently, however, laid their plans

for removing this obstacle to their intimacy. They talk of becoming

voluntary old maids, and of coaxing grandfather to build for their sole

occupation an “Old Maid’s Hall.” Mabel has repeatedly declared her

determination never to be such a goose as to get married; while Fanny,

in one of her frequent letters to Mabel, has written, “Is it not a

glorious thing to be an old maid? And what further recommendation can a

lady need in the eyes of society if it is known that she is _an old

maid_!” It may be well if their plans are eventually put into execution,

for rumor says, though Mabel Wilmot disclaims the assertion with a most

indignant toss of her glossy ringlets, that a certain Mr. Merritt, the

high-souled, noble-looking, and wealthy rector of B——, has lately, for

the first time, been suspected of _interested motives_ in his

intercourse with a member of his flock; while the bright eyes and

witching smile of Fanny Gordon seem to argue for the future a prospectus

of hearts beguiled, one of which may eventually cause the overthrow of

the projected building.

A youth of nineteen or so, who is at present busily engaged entertaining

several younger cousins, is Mr. Harry Gordon, a theological student,

with whom social qualities and professional abilities, will always be

happily blended. He is amusing his juvenile companions with a game of

his own invention—a sort of play upon names, of which the following may

be taken as examples:

What well known scriptural name might a mother use in requesting her son

to escort home two young lady visiters?—Jeroboam. (“Jerry, bow ’em!”)

If an old gentleman told his son to crowd into an already well-filled

omnibus, the name of what conspicuous personage present would form the

command?—Benjamin. (“Ben, jam in!”)

The names of what popular authors of Great Britain might a person, while

gazing at a large bonfire, with propriety repeat?—Dickens, Howitt,

Burns. (“Dickens! how it burns!”)

The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting

to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this

original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third

particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the

centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy

Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and

has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with

whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of

orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very

soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear

old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that

sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright

youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild,

“She is just what _I_ was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly

expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their

household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls

his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind

herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye

invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But

this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she

has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying

open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy

Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is

not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous

heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland.

Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting

lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound

and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished

reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions

of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and

from which the ensuing is an extract.

“The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables,

but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings,

which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the

sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions

might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her

poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her

spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any

others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities

in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest

aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were

otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters

in the histories of literature or society.”

And it was pleasant to see what a beautiful glow of sympathy and

enthusiasm illumined the countenance of the reader as she concluded that

most happy and fitting tribute to genius.

Mrs. Clinton is the youngest child of Grandfather Gordon. When only

eighteen, she became the wife of one to whom she was devotedly attached,

and two years afterward bent wildly over the death-couch of her idolized

husband. Ten years have passed since then, and time has softened the

sorrow which at first seemed too grievous for human endurance. Though

now past her thirtieth birth-day, Mrs. Clinton looks much younger. You

would scarcely suppose her more than two-and-twenty; and though not what

the world calls a beautiful woman, it would be difficult to deny that

there is something striking and noble in her appearance. She is somewhat

above the medium height, with a form of faultless symmetry, and a step

and carriage, though stately, yet eminently graceful. The contour of her

head is certainly superb, and its effect upon the observer greatly

enhanced by the arrangement of her abundant soft, brown hair, which is

always wound about it simply, and with a grace the more perfect,

because, while perfectly natural, it is unconsciously artistic. But her

features are decidedly irregular and unimpressive; and it is only when

those large, gray eyes are lighted, as upon the present occasion, from

within, when some inner chord is touched, and the usually pale cheek is

flushed and animated with the fire of feeling, that you are ready to

accord to her the power of fascination. But once meet that peculiarly

soulful look, and it will reflect itself continually, and haunt you

forever after. You will probably gaze frequently again upon the same

immobile features, but expressionless they will seem never more. By

those to whom she deigns to reveal herself, Mrs. Clinton is worshiped as

the personification of all that is lovely and lovable and intellectual.

And there are many also who have caught accidental glimpses of that

beautiful, noble, and impassioned spirit, and who would give worlds for

the slightest token that the deep interest with which she inspires them

is returned. Mrs. Clinton has had many offers of marriage; she has

turned coldly yet tearfully from the homage of many a true and manly,

ay, and gifted heart; for though she has long since laid aside the weeds

of widowhood, her _soul_ is still arrayed in mourning-garb for the

husband of her bright, fresh youth. She is one of those beings, few and

rare, indeed, with whom, having once passionately loved and survived the

object of their attachment, no compensation, however heart-offered,

could induce one moment’s oblivion of the past, or the most remote

thought of yielding to another that place in their holiest affections

which has been occupied by the departed. Though shut out from a sphere

of usefulness which she might truly have called her own, the years of

Mrs. Clinton’s widowhood had not been inactive. As she recovered from

the effects of that well-nigh overwhelming affliction, her little niece,

Amy, was approaching the most interesting stage of childhood. Her

beautiful, bright face, and the daily revealings of a mind unusually

intelligent, together with the sweet orphan’s naturally winning and

bewitching ways, won more and more upon the heart of her aunt. And so,

when Amy Carter was nine years old, Mrs. Clinton begged that her niece

might be altogether withdrawn from school, and that she might herself be

allowed to superintend the little girl’s education. So from that time

Amy dwelt beneath the spiritual dominion of her aunt; and never was

pupil more docile, or preceptress kinder or more fondly beloved. And

Amy’s devotion to Mrs. Clinton is still as ardent and enthusiastic as in

the days of her childhood. Wherever the latter has stationed herself,

you may be sure that the former is not very many paces distant. Mrs.

Clinton sometimes laughingly, but lovingly, styles Amy her shadow; and

her eyes are often suffused with happy tears at some unobtrusive mark of

the young girl’s earnest affection.

But upon the foregoing imperfect daguerreotypes, gentle reader, I have

already lingered longer than my time admits; for, after all, my

principal object in asking you to bear me company within the precincts

of this pleasant household, was, that we might inspect some of the

Valentines in yonder daintily-wrought basket resting upon the table,

beside which fair Amy Carter is seated.

(As a particular secret, dear reader, I will whisper to you that the

authorship of most of these little friendly missives is ascribed to Mrs.

Clinton.)

The first Valentine within our reach is addressed to Harry Gordon.

When on your downy couch you lie,

And thoughtful heave the pensive sigh,

Or muse on conquests—Cupid’s bow

Oft bent by thee—

Ere slumber comes—just then bestow

One thought on me.

And if your fancy can but paint

A modest maid, not _quite_ a saint,

In stature small, in visage fair,

Mild and discreet,

’Tis she would free your mind from care

With whispers sweet.

Upon the reception of which, it may be as well to mention, our

anticipated doctor of divinity had laid his hand most impressively upon

his heart, in token of his appreciating divination of a passion so

divine.

Next we have a Valentine upon the tiniest of all tiny sheets of

gilt-edged note-paper. It is inscribed to little Helen Bond.

Little Helen—list awhile,

And I’ll strive to wake a smile

On thy pure and dimpled cheek,

As I tell thee of a freak

That thy dainty spirit played,

Dreaming not ’twould be betrayed.

Little one—when thou to-day,

Cradled in sweet slumber lay,

To a very distant goal,

Lo! thy truant spirit stole.

To my study, love, it came;

And I hope thou wilt not blame,

That with eager, wild delight,

Greeted I a guest so bright!

With a sweetly joyous shout,

First it gayly skipped about,

Chanting forth a song of glee,

That awhile it might be free!

Then it nestled at my side,

Welcomed there with love and pride,

When it touched my silent lute,

Asking why its chords were mute?

And with eyes upraised to mine,

Pleaded for a Valentine!

Little Helen—not in vain

Did thy spirit seek the strain;

Not in vain, love, did it stray

From its native haunts away;

For I roused my lyre again,

Singing to a soft refrain

Prayers and wishes, warm and fond,

For thy Future—Helen Bond!

And such prayers are and will be

Gushing from my soul for thee

Every day and every hour,

Rare and lovely little flower!

Long may they who guard thy bloom

Live thy life-path to illume;

And may hearts as true respond

E’er to thine, sweet Helen Bond!

Where thy fairy feet fall lightly

Ever may _their_ eyes beam brightly,

And those voices meet thine own,

Cherishing its faintest tone.

So will Love and Happiness,

Spirits bright, that reign to bless,

O’er thee wave their magic wand,

Darling little Helen Bond!

Here are two Valentines written upon the same sheet of paper—not for

economy’s sake, gentle reader, but to convey an idea that the parties

addressed are as they profess to be—one in spirit. The first is

inscribed to Mabel Wilmot, and the following is its language.

Mable, dear Mable! pray beware,

Or else you’ll fall into a snare;

Laid down, I’m very much afraid

For you—a volunteer—old-maid!

_He_ waits but till you’re free from school,

To take you ’neath his lordly rule;

For then he hopes to hear you say,

You’ll “love and honor and obey!”

’Tis naught to you, though wealth and _merit_

Beyond a doubt he does inherit;

You’re bound to live and die a maid,

Demure, respectable and staid.

So, Mable, darling, _do_ beware

Of that gay sportsman’s cunning snare,

And as your hand and heart’s his mark.

Just bid your heart _emit the spark_!

Upon the opposite page are traced the ensuing lines to Fanny Gordon.

Sweet Fanny! deep within my “heart of hearts,”

A true and holy sentiment hath birth,

Which there must ever dwell till life departs—

Respect and reverence for thy modest worth!

Like the dear violet, blooming in the shade,

Scarce daring e’en to court the sun’s soft rays,

Shrinking and trembling when by chance betrayed

To the wild ardor of some earnest gaze.

Thus art _thou_, Fanny! and thus will the light

Of thy fair spirit burst from its disguise

With sudden glory, and the vision bright

Shall thrill all hearts with love and glad surprise;

And startled souls shall _thy_ bright soul allure

To kneel and worship at a shrine so pure!

You should have seen, dear reader, with what exuberance of glee Katie

Wilmot received _her_ Valentine, which is the one we are now about to

unfold. You should have caught the sound of her merry, ringing laughter,

and the gayly triumphant tone in which, holding her newly-gained

treasure to view, she exclaimed, “Sister Mabel—Cousin Fanny, can you

guess who this is for? Ah, you can’t guess—you wouldn’t dream of such a

thing? It’s for me—for _me_!” Then you should have witnessed how

joyously the little fairy clapped her tiny hands together, and the

impromptu polka which she accomplished round the apartment after the

following all-important little missive was read to her.

TO KATIE.

Within my heart, you darling elf!

I’ve caged your little frolic self,

There will I hold you tight and fast—

And so you see you’re caught at last;

While this resolve I’ve made sincerely,

To kiss and pet and love you dearly;

You need not struggle to get free,

You’re snugly locked—Love has the key;

And once within his power, you know,

He never lets a prisoner go!

You saucy witch! you need not pout,

And vow you’ll surely raise a route,

Unless within one minute more,

I summon Love to ope the door!

Now plead not with that coaxing smile,

Just to be free _a little while_;

You waste your cunning, for in vain

You strive to break Love’s silken chain.

Whene’er he plays the jailor’s part

He’s “up to” every dainty art,

And though you think he’ll let you off,

When well you know you’ll laugh and scoff

The moment when, on loosened pinions,

You wing away from his dominions;

From that wild dream you’ll soon awaken,

To learn you’re wofully mistaken;

Love never yet betrayed a trust,

So, for your comfort, stay you must!

Ah! by this time I see you’ve found

You’re really safely caught and bound;

So, having tamed you down in season,

I’m sure you soon will list to reason,

And cease for liberty to pine,

My true heart’s captive Valentine!

Yes, Katie Wilmot was _very_ proud of that; and she might have been

heard from time to time, through the evening, repeating with peculiar

satisfaction what seemed to be her two favorite lines,

While this resolve I’ve made sincerely

To kiss and pet and love you dearly!

These three appropriate little verses, addressed to Amy Carter, next

demand our attention.

The “Household Witch,” _thy_ winning name,

Because o’er all around thee,

To weave Love’s magic spell the aim,

Which true as Truth has found thee!

Then as through future years thy smiles

Illume this favored dwelling,

All shadows by thy frolic wiles

And witchery dispelling.

By wile and smile in every niche,

All needless gloom suppressing,

Remaining yet the Household Witch,

Still prove—_the Household Blessing_!

Dear Amy Carter! The ardent, impulsive kiss which your lips imprinted

upon that well-known handwriting, told how precious was this pleasant

tribute; that you recognized and blessed the traces of your childhood’s

loving friend, of your girlhood’s guardian angel!

One more poetical heart-effusion and our recording space is filled even

to overflowing. It is inscribed to Mrs. Clinton.

Though I turn, I fly not,

I cannot depart;

I would try, but try not,

To release my heart;

And my hopes are dying,

While on dreams relying,

I am spelled by art.

Thus the bright snake coiling

’Neath the forest tree,

Wins the bird beguiling

To come down and see.

Like that bird the lover,

Round his fate will hover,

Till the blow is over,

And he sinks—like me!

Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment,

your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For

years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his

attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he

could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love,

I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no

return—for still with me

“Affection sheds its holiest light

Upon my husband’s tomb!”

And so with “tears, radiant emanations,” welling from the innermost

depths of your soul, and glistening in your eyes, with intuitive

delicacy, you placed that avowal of disappointed affection in your

portfolio, deeming it there so safe from observation that not even Amy,

your darling, would ever catch a glimpse of it. But, unfortunately, on

the way to your own apartment, it escaped from its hiding-place, and was

picked up upon the stair by one of your little nieces, who transferred

it to the general Valentine-receptacle in the parlor. By and by you will

doubtless ask yourself with regretful wonder, how it came there.

But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with

the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader,

if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that

theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred

when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father,

a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and

peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes

them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts

and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed

tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.”

* * * * *

THE VALLEY OF SHADOW.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

WHEN daylight ends, where night begins,

(May Jesus save us from our sins!)

There lies a narrow, shadowy vale—

(Mark me, I but repeat a tale

Which once, I know not how, or when,

Came mystically within my ken:)

A dark, sepulchral, silent vale,

Lying beyond the ultimate pale

Of distant Time—beyond the din

Of human tongues—by which the Djin,

And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light,

Come in the noiselessness of night

To chant unearthly notes and bars

To the unquiet, pensive stars—

To carol many a carping tune

In mockery of the mourning moon—

By which the jackal and the lynx

Make curious queries to the Sphynx,

Who never drops her stony eyes

From contemplation of the skies

To heed the rout, whose awful howls

Alarm the fiery-visioned owls,

That, at the decadence of day,

Flit round and round in search of prey.

Without a stream, without a tree,

The vale has been and still will be—

Though obelisks with many a trace

Of many an immemorial race,

With many a mighty pyramid

In which lost histories lie hid,

Rudely engraved on silent stone,

For countless centuries unknown,

Point, here, and there, and yon, to where

God and his angels dwell in air;—

And thistles rise and grow and bloom,

And cypresses, those trees of gloom,

Frown everywhere along the pale

Which is the entrance to the vale;—

But nothing—nothing _moves_ within:

_There_ is no tumult and no din:—

Shut out by hills that scarcely show

A rift of sky to those below,

The dwellers in this lonely spot

Rest even by memory forgot:—

Recumbent, in a sunless rest

They lie, with hands across their breast,

So motionless of hand or head

That he who gazed would deem them dead,

Or sleeping, when their toil was done,

Until the rising of the sun.

They have no mind, thus left alone;

Strike them; you will not hear a groan;

An icy torpor fills their veins;

They have no mortal cares, or pains,

Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,

If sleep be life, with nothing rife

Which we who love the setting sun

And crimson sky and crystal run,

And all things else that God has made—

We, who would moulder in the shade,

Can contemplate or understand

Like these inhabitants of the land,

These rigid and insensible blocks

Of clay, as cold of heart as rocks:

Still, so the legend sings, whose tune

Dropped, dew-like, from the tearful moon,

When sky and earth shall pass away,

When space becomes eternal day

The Dwellers of the Vale will rise

Beyond what once have been the skies,

Radiant, before immortal eyes,

To live and love in Paradise!

* * * * *

[Illustration:

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

BY C. F. ASHMEAD.

There is a game,

A frivolous and foolish play,

Wherewith we while away the day.

BYRON’S MAZEPPA.

THE Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a court not

excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for accomplished

and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little magnitude, sparkled in

the regal diadem of female loveliness, but she outshone them all. In the

graces of her person, in wit, in accomplishments, she appeared without a

competitor—not to say without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded

the palm to her indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned

her with its leaves. She was the Venus of the day.

Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the grave

statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some charm for

all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love. One gallant

after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair in his heart:

and it might have been believed that the exquisite temple of her form

enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so peculiarly fitted to

inspire.

* * * * *

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of

royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the

distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to lend

a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired of her sex

shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her loveliness on this

evening surpassed itself: and there was a languishing tenderness in her

eyes that bespoke a softer mood than her wont, and lent hope once more

to her despairing suitors. With renewed energy, these crowded around her

to seek her smiles, while new aspirants for her gracious favor added the

meed of their respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from

the idol of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable

for his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than all,

his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court after

an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share in the

fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by degrees,

he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he evidently avoided

passing within the charmed circle of her blandishments. His very glances

appeared schooled to prevent their resting on her, as he stood

dejectedly within the door, with his eyes cast upon the ground.

“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night beyond

the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G—,

advancing close beside him.

“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which I have

already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”

“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo! the

lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side, attended

by some of her satellites.”

Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the

correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-room.

“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack the

peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will

surrender her hand at thy discretion.”

“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so many have

been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay, there remains no

alternative for my happiness save to shun her altogether.”

A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the fair

being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the door-way in

which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young nobleman who regarded

her with looks of anxiety. A sudden indisposition had that instant

seized her, and she was retiring to seek her recovery apart from the

crowd.

“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they had reached

the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a slight faintness,

and I shall be myself again presently.”

The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in solitude.

Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom alone I

love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in future shun

me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that he is not

indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted a

misapprehension so cruel?——”

A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy sunk into

inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought continued, and she

remained for a considerable time with her emotion deepening rather than

diminishing.

At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her

self-possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would

occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for the

purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-room.

The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and it was

fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in one of

the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance of Lord R.,

her former emotion returned with increased violence. Smothering her

sensations to prevent her attracting their attention, until the effort

almost choked her, she sank back again upon her seat, where the damask

window-curtains afforded her an effectual screen from discovery.

Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a small

side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of draughts.

The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with whom he had

recently been conversing, and he had, with the charitable design of

diverting his friend’s melancholy mood, suggested a trial against

himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the game in question—he being

himself also a scientific and accomplished player.

They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was every

time the winner.

As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an

opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was such

as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became interested in

the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of the successful

combatant.

“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back the

board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for me, and

yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”

“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen games I

played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the example of the

other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within that of his

friend, they made their exit from the apartment.

It was not until some little time after their departure that our heroine

arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it would have

seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and sanguine idea had

struck her, possessing the power to dispel her previous desponding state

of mind.

When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted the scene.

But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended beyond the present

into the future: and the reader, who is acquainted with her sentiments,

may augur, from the beaming smiles which throughout the remainder of the

evening she shed around her—too bright to be the result of aught else

than heartfelt confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate

mode of communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the

words she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to

doubt.

* * * * *

The Lady Arabella suddenly grew extraordinarily partial to a pleasing,

though not heretofore engrossing amusement. Hoyle had not at that day

been published; but practice was her teacher, and she became an

astonishing adept at Draughts. A passion emanating from so admired a

source soon spread throughout the court circle, until checker-boards

took the place of dancing and music, and conversation, in every festive

concourse. For the remainder of the season, nothing else was in vogue.

The ball-room continued empty, the drama remained unnoticed, and the

worshipers at the shrine of Pleasure sought her only at the table of the

fashionable game. The lady who was skillful at draughts, was deemed

something more worthy to aspire to distant rivalry with the Lady

Arabella, and the man who excelled at the same, was thought more fitting

to become, however unsuccessfully, her suitor.

* * * * *

The excitement in the metropolis, caused by the retirement of lords and

ladies to their country residences, was at its height. The atmosphere

exhaled the balmy softness and fragrancy of an English June; and a

succession of delicious days witnessed the arrival of a party of the

first noblemen of the realm at the Castle of ——.

This castle was beautifully situated on the margin of a winding lake,

surrounded by the most bewitching and graceful mountain scenery. Art,

moreover, lent its aid to increase the attractions of the spot, and

gardens, groves, grottos, arbors, and fountains, appeared at every turn

in rich and tasteful variety. It was a residence worthy of a divinity.

And such, indeed, Fortune had placed in it, for the magnificent domain

was the inheritance of the father of the Lady Arabella, while his

daughter was the goddess of the place.

It was a singular mandate which here congregated around her the chivalry

of the day. She had caused it to be known that she desired her suitors,

one and all, to meet her at this particular crisis, in trial of their

skill against her own, at the late fashionable game of draughts. He who

should prove her successful antagonist, the proclamation declared, was

to take his revenge in claiming her hand. Three months had been given

them for practice, and the time had at length expired. The aspirants day

by day were arriving in numbers, and the castle became filled with

guests.

England might well have been proud of the flower of her manhood, as they

showed on this occasion. Stately and stalwort forms, and haughty brows,

and eyes of intellectual fire, were to be seen among the motley but

graceful crowd.

At length, the day which limited any further arrivals dawned. It was the

same that was to decide the fate of those visiters already assembled.

At an early hour, clad in a dress of simple white, with a bodice of blue

satin, the Lady Arabella descended among her palpitating guests.

“I am ready, gentlemen,” said she, with one of her radiant smiles. “I

will retire to the adjoining colonnade, and let him who wishes to make

the first trial join me there. When a single game with him is over,

another can take his place. There is but one suggestion I would make,”

she added, “which is, that those who are deemed the most skillful

players remain until the last.” So saying, she turned and departed.

The colonnade which the Lady Arabella had thus dedicated to the singular

contest, was situated so as to receive the breeze from the neighboring

lake. A fountain of pure water, placed near, likewise contributed to

refresh the atmosphere, while the picturesque mountain scenery in the

distance delighted the eye, and the songs of birds in an adjoining grove

made melody to the ear.

After a few moments’ consultation among her suitors, our heroine was

speedily followed into this pleasing retreat, first by one and then by

another in rapid succession. The only interruption the routine

experienced was that caused by the necessity of her taking some

refreshment. In this manner, the day wore away, and each of her

antagonists retired in turn, crest-fallen and vanquished.

It was almost twilight, and there now remained but one gallant to be

tested. He had unanimously been voted the best player present; and had

therefore, according to the Lady Arabella’s suggestion, been preceded by

all his companions. As he entered the colonnade with an embarrassed,

though graceful step, the lady blushed, and her eyes grew soft and

tender. Intent upon the great stake before him, these indications were

lost upon the nobleman, who took his seat at the board. In fact, he dare

scarcely trust himself with more than a glance at the fair being

opposite him, lest the dazzling vision should disarm his skill.

But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant played

carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of her opponent,

rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her moves seemed made

without foresight, resembling those of a beginner more than an adept,

and she failed to crown a single king. In a word, the meanest antagonist

might have won the game at issue, and in a quarter of an hour her

opponent gained an easy victory.

“Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on her

part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she had

previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to claim the

rich reward?”

His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and ventured to

raise his eyes to her countenance.

It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to meet his, the

nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that gesture made willingly

and confidingly his own.

The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the Lady

Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion in the

_beau monde_, but, during their hours of privacy, the game continued,

throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the happy pair whom

it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union.

* * * * *

THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.”

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

THE stars were weary—all the summer night

They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls,

And danced along their wanton wanderings

To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,”

Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek

Returning from the midnight festival,

Their glances faded, lest they should behold

The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky.

The silver lute of the young morning star

Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn

With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,

Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own

The gentle pressure. As the waves of light

Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,

In golden ripples, faintly they revealed

Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist

Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,

And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests

Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud,

With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls,

Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair

Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour

Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still,

Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base,

Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek,

And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.

On Horeb’s mount a holy man of God

Stood forth to view the fragrant strife of morn,

Sunshine with shadow—rosy day with night—

And sleeping Death with glory-wakened Life.

A close dark mantle wrapped his agéd form,

His brow uncovered, though a snowy lock,

Stirred by the breeze of morning, waved above

Its frozen marble; while the gathered shades

Of many years hung, like a coronal

Of withered leaves, around it—and his eyes,

Strange, deep, and fathomless, gleamed forth beneath

Its deadly whiteness, like two liquid flames.

From the recesses of a marble tomb.

Mystic and subtle as some charmed perfume,

A sense of pleasure thrilled upon his heart,

As quick, faint pulses of the scented breeze

Brought balmy odors from the dewy flowers,

Waved the plumed monarchs of the forest proud,

And wafted on the islets of the cloud

Through liquid sapphire, where they seemed to float

Softly and dreamily, and full of love.

He bowed and worshiped—and “the Lord passed by.”

The sky was changed—and hoarsely, from afar,

A sound of waters, and of mingled winds,

Through forests raging, crept upon the ear;

And, driving o’er the azure fields of heaven,

Cloud after cloud came rolling swiftly on,

Black Pelion upon gloomy Ossa piled.

Like giant towers they gather, and from point

To point along their frowning battlements

Red signal-fires are flashing far and free.

Hark! the deep watchword of the rushing storm!

The thunder-spirit calls his squadrons dark,

Far through the trackless void of scowling space,

And lightning rends the cloudy canopy,

As prophet’s vision tears aside the veil

That shadows o’er the future, and beholds

Beyond unfolded naught but dim, and wild,

And fearful mystery. Then the sullen roar

Of elemental conflict crashing fell—

A mingled din of crushing thunderbolts,

And sadly moaning winds, and heavy drops

Of rain, as though the demons of the storm

Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.

’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled

The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels

Of burning levin—by the tempest led,

(As some great conqueror from battle won,)

The serried hosts of falling waters passed

Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;

And Nature shouted as the wing of peace

Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track

Of elemental war. “The Lord was not”

Amid the rushing armies of the storm,

Its fierceness was the shadow of his frown,

Deep-veiled, yet dark, and terribly sublime;

And, as upon its far retiring verge,

The glorious rainbow brightened, ’twas a dim

And faint reflection of His mercy’s smile!

Again the spirit of a fearful change

Came stealing o’er the blue and tranquil heaven—

A hollow, rushing murmur filled the air,

And the low sobbing of the rising wind

Grew deeper, till in howling gusts it whirled

Dark wreaths of earthy fragments to the sky,

As though the maddened gnomes were hurling death

Against the vapory armaments of air;

And lurid flames with blue and ghastly glare

Gleamed o’er the face of Nature till it blanched,

As though the warning of the last dread trump

Had smote her guilt upon a coward heart.

The earthquake rising from his burning lair,

Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,

Shook everlasting hills from out his path,

Like a roused lion flinging from his mane

The dewy drops of morning. At his tread

The pale earth trembled, and anon there came

A crushing down of rocky battlements,

Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,

On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell

Far down the dark, immeasurable void

Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips

Of fierce, insatiate hell. He tore away

The iron nerves from that strong mountain’s heart,

As though the destiny of a conqueror lay

Deep hid within it, and the hour was come

When he must march to seek it, in a last

And wild death-revel. As this passed away,

In racking throes, which might have seemed the strong

Convulsive shudder of dissolving worlds,

The earth moaned feebly, as a dying child

Will murmur faintly in its fever-dream—

Then darkness gathered round it, like the deep,

Black jaws of cold annihilation.

It came—it vanished—and “the Lord was not”

Throned high upon the earthquake’s blasting rage;

But, at the echo of His chariot wheels,

The iron land tossed like the ocean waves,

And mountains dashed aloft their crested heads

As surging billows flout a stormy sky.

The air was stagnant, cold, and dark, and dull,

Heavy as morn to aching senses, when

Some dreamer wakes to feel a load of care

Pressed back upon his memory, and hastes

To close his eyes, that he may cast it off,

And dream once more of happiness and hope.

Like molten lead along the sullen sky,

Gray clouds hung drooping, for the summer wind

Seemed frozen, and its restless wing was dead.

Strong, swift, and chainless as some maddening thought,

There came the spirit of a change, which seemed

To wave aloft the banner and the sword

Of a destroying angel—withering winds

Rose, winged with lightning, and the brazen sky

Was one red desert, peopled with a host

Of burning shadows, lurid shapes of hell,

That wildly mingled with the falling stars,

And whirled in flaming chaos up to heaven!

Clouds heated to a whiteness writhed and tossed

Along the horizon’s verge of liquid fire,

And, from their snowy foldings rent and torn,

Gushed forth a stream of meteors, like deep gouts

Of crimson blood from Beauty’s mangled bosom.

Bright glowed the valleys, and the eternal hills

Seemed towering to the brassy vault of heaven

In gorgeous pyramids of living flame—

A mighty holocaust, and offered high

On the red altars of a crumbling world

To some fierce god of elemental fire.

It flamed—it faded—but “the Lord was not”

Upon the burning pinions of its strength;

His glance, which withers dynasties and thrones—

His passing breath, where hangs the fate of kings

And mighty nations, kindled up the sky,

And lightened o’er a terror-stricken world.

Noontide poured down upon the sleeping earth

And dreaming waves a long and fervid kiss

Of panting passion, and the Orient’s heart

Glowed in its languid atmosphere of love.

The storm, the earthquake, and the flashing fire.

Had left it placid as the orbéd brow

Of slumbering Beauty—through the fragrant air

There came no sounding sweep of angel wings,

No frowning fury rushing on to tread

The wrathful wine-press of avenging God;

But the rich music of a “still, small voice,”

From the far arches of the vaulted sky

Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath

Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line

Of universal being, till it thrilled

A new creation into loving life,

Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere,

The universe of harmony was dumb,

For in the music of that “still small voice,”

Was blent the omnipresence of the Lord.

The prophet shrouded up his lofty brow

Deep in his mantle, and his soul grew still

With silent worship, as his thirsting heart

Drank the rich murmur of that mystic tone

Which told the mighty presence of his God!

The true existence of a gifted soul

Is like that prophet’s vision, and it seems

A dread reality, to which his trance

Was but the faint foreshadowing. The hues

Of morning sleep upon enchanted earth

When the young soul exulting presses on

To chase the pleasures of its opening day.

Its dreams are fairy cloudlets, flushed with hope,

Wrought into beauty by the singing wind,

Which bears them on its wing so joyously;

While the glad revel of its morning song

Fills the blue arches of its summer heaven.

The strong day deepens, as the spirit speeds

Along the crowded thoroughfares of life,

But apprehension’s vague, dim, shadow flits

O’er thought’s bright beauty; strange and fitfully

Gray tints of doubt will mingle with the hues

Of rainbow light, with which it used to paint

The future’s glory—and the Right and Wrong

Will struggle fiercely in the wavering heart,

Like light and shadow ’mid the wreathing folds

Of cloudy columns driven by the storm.

It grovels with the herd of Mammon’s slaves,

And drops of poisoned anguish from the heart

Will start and thicken on the pallid brow.

Deep disappointment, like the serpent’s fang,

Strikes through the spirit sharply, and the cry

Of midnight whirlwinds shrieking on the wold

Is not so weird and fearful. Tempest-tossed,

The soul must wander on its weary way,

Till, from the caverns of its being, rent

By strong fatality, a first, great love

Bursts on its raptured vision, as of old

A mighty angel rolled away the stone

Which shrouded o’er the sepulchre of God,

And clothed in living glory, as a robe,

Came forth the Crucified! How soft at first

The voiceless breathing of that atmosphere—

How sweet the stillness where no breezes sigh

Save that of Love’s impassioned oracle!

Anon ’tis broken, and the future sobs

A low, sad warning of the storm to come.

’Tis Passion’s earthquake rising in its might,

To scatter thought, as gathered cloud on cloud,

It hangs around the pinnacles of mind,

Perchance deep-freighted with some glorious truth,

Which, could it melt away in genial showers,

Would bless and beautify a desert world.

As some strong column, God-erected, on

The mountain’s misty summit, the young heart

Sways to and fro between the Right and Wrong—

The first may triumph, or the last may win,

It matters not, wild Passion’s dreams is past,

The soul is stagnant—but it sleeps no more.

Cradled in heaven, but entombed in hell,

Then comes the torture of its aching void,

Silent, beneath the suffocating press

Of bitter, sullen agony it lies.

The spirit sickens with its loneliness—

And thirst of _power_ dissolves the icy spell,

Which bound its pulses into leaden sleep;

Then mad Ambition withers down the wrecks

Of disappointed Passion, as the crash

Of thunder follows in the lightning’s path;

The myrtle-wreath, now trampled and despoiled,

Is dashed aside to grasp a laurel crown.

The meed of genius, and of victory!

The past becomes a broken altar-stone.

But from the ashes of its cold despair

The strong soul rises into glorious life,

Like a young Phœnix flaming into birth.

Sweet rainbow-tinted fancies have decayed,

But lofty thoughts like gorgeous banners wave

In triumph o’er the citadel of Mind—

Though tossed, perchance, upon a sigh which tells

Of ruined hope, and desolated love;

The eloquence of passion-parted lips

Has softly faded, like the rich perfume

Of burning incense—but a vaporous flame

Of proud defiance scathes the listening world.

Thus goaded on to action by the fire

That madly rages in a wasted heart,

It struggles on to win the dust of time,

To strew it o’er the amaranthine leaves

Of an immortal coronal; its fame

Flashes, a meteor through the changing sky

Of popular opinion, ever urged

“_Onward—still onward_”—by the iron hand

Of strong, resistless Destiny. The storm,

The rocking earthquake, and devouring fire,

Have done their work upon the heart and soul;

Have torn away the sweetest bloom of life

And flung it wantonly upon the world—

Corroding Care has shed its poison dew

O’er Pleasure, which is foam upon the wave—

And Shame’s red plague-spot flashes in the heart,

While Pride and Passion’s flaming lava-drops

Fall hissing through its purest depths, to change

Their sweets to bitter burning.

O’er the fount,

Erewhile so wild and troubled, sweeps a spell

And “peace, be still,” is in its music tone.

The “still, small voice,” which breathes of “love divine,”

Steals o’er the spirit like the singing rain

To blossoms by the summer lightning crushed.

Shrouded in beauty, flows the fountain calm.

In dewy light the feelings sparkle on,

For every wave of thought is full of prayer.

Within its holy sanctuary hushed,

So softly beats the bosom purified,

So sweet the slumber of a soul forgiven,—

While blended with its harmony of thought

That angel “voice” is sounding peacefully,

With waning life alone to pass away,

And fade into the melody of Heaven!

_Memphis_, 1850.

“L’INCONNUE.”

* * * * *

TO THE FLOWER HEARTS-EASE.

RENOUNCE thy name, deceitful flower,

Nor boast an art beyond thy power;

Dost thou such consequence assume,

That yieldeth no such rich perfume?

The jessamine and fragrant rose

Surpass thee far, yet humbler those:

Nor does the woodbine e’er pretend

To cheer or to console a friend.

Cease, cease to promise happiness—

What widow’s desolate distress,

Or aged parent’s troubled soul

Hast thou been able to control?

Thou pretty groveler on the ground,

No spell for sorrow can be found

In thee—a gaudy, rich attire

Is all thy votaries admire.

When varied colors, gay and bright,

Can give a joyless mind delight,

My muse shall celebrate thy fame—

Till then, false flower, renounce thy name.

_Burlington, N. J._

* * * * *

LIFE’S LESSONS TEACH CHARITY.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

Turn thy eyes back upon thyself, and see thou judge not the

doings of others. THOMAS A’KEMPIS.

“WE missed you so much at Mrs. Fenton’s last evening, Cornelia; why did

you not come?” asked Miss Lee.

“Because Miss Enna had just come to us, and was not well; nor did I feel

very well myself.”

“Mrs. Fenton told us Miss Duval had partly promised to come also,” said

Miss Ellen Lee, a younger sister of the first speaker.

“So I did,” I replied; “when Mrs. Fenton called at Miss Clemson’s

yesterday morning, I told her if I felt well enough in the evening I

would come.”

“What a very pleasant young person Miss Clemson is, Miss Duval,” drawled

out young Colton, a dangling beau of the Miss Lees, “my sisters go to

school to her, and I had no idea their _school ma’am_ was such a nice

young woman.”

The young ladies giggled at this would-be witty and patronizing remark,

to which I only replied with a cold assenting bow of my head.

“I have never met with her before,” said Miss Ellen Lee, “but I really

liked her very much.”

“She converses very well,” said the elder Miss Lee. “We had an

opportunity of judging last evening, for she did the most of the

talking.”

“She’s one of your talking women, I believe, but that’s her business,

you know,” rejoined the dandy, in an affected languid tone of voice, as

if the exertion of talking was too much for a person of gentility. A

sharp retort trembled on my tongue, but I checked myself, as my eyes

passed over his insipid, characterless face; and I returned with such

animation to a little drawing I was making for Cornelia’s mother, that I

snapped off the end of my pencil.

“I did not know that Miss Clemson visited this winter in society,” said

Cornelia. “Is she not in mourning?”

“Oh! no,” exclaimed Miss Ellen Lee, “she is not in mourning, for she was

dressed beautifully last evening, she had on a light silver-gray silk,

very rich and expensive looking;—any thing but mourning.”

“She does not approve of mourning,” said the elder sister, “and although

her brother and his wife died only a few weeks since, I suppose she does

not approve of observing any of the customs of society on such

occasions, no matter how sad they may be.”

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Knowles, a purse-proud _parvenue_ woman,

“persons not properly in society, like Miss Clemson, are excusable in

differing from its usual customs; it matters little what they do.”

I quietly permitted the conversation to proceed, for I felt too much

contempt for the company, to take any trouble to defend my dear friend,

Mary Clemson. I knew their remarks proceeded from willful malice, and

that it would be of little use to set them right. My little pencil

sketch, however, from my repressed temper, was growing quite as spirited

under my quick, impulsive touches, as the original, from which I was

copying it—the only good that resulted from the gossip; and I should

have remained silent, had not my friend, Cornelia Payne—who was not

acquainted with Miss Clemson, joined in the conversation, and

animadverted pretty severely on Miss Clemson’s want of feeling.

“She might dress as she pleased,” said Cornelia, in reply to a flippant

remark of Ellen Lee’s, that Miss Clemson dressed very expensively and

extravagantly for one in her position and circumstances; “dressing is a

matter that belongs to one’s own taste, and so far as circumstances and

means are concerned, that is nobody’s business; but I think it argues a

want of feeling, a coldness of heart, when one who has recently gone

through so much trouble, can so readily throw it aside and make their

appearance at an evening party.”

“Oh, Miss Clemson prides herself upon being above all such weaknesses,”

said Miss Hill, another young lady present. “Little Sallie Foster, one

of her pupils, told me the other day, that Miss Mary had given her quite

a lecture because she cried at the prospect of a rainy day, which would

necessarily put off a May party, and said she could scarcely conceive of

the necessity of shedding tears, no matter how great the trial might

be.”

My memory quickly recalled the scene Miss Hill alluded to. I had been

visiting Mary Clemson the week before, and had been present at the

conversation with little Sallie Foster. The remark quoted had been meant

to apply merely to temporal trials; and as the sobbing Sallie left the

room, I remembered the touching, sad expression of my noble,

strong-minded friend’s countenance, as she turned to me, and said,

“Heaven grant the poor child may never have real trials to weep for.”

“It’s well she is strong enough to overcome natural feeling,” said

Cornelia Payne, in reply to Miss Hill’s remark, “that is, well for her

own worldly comfort, I mean, but I do not admire such unfeeling

persons.”

This was going a little too far for my patience, for I respected and

loved Cornelia Payne, though I knew her to be somewhat uncharitable, and

harsh in her judgments of others.

“Cornelia,” I said, “Miss Clemson is not unfeeling; she has as warm and

sensitive a heart as any one I know.”

“Oh, we forgot,” exclaimed the Misses Lee in a breath, “that Miss

Clemson was an intimate friend of Miss Duval’s.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at Mrs. Knowles, “my mother knew Miss Clemson’s

mother, when she was the rich heiress, Miss Fleming; and your father

Mrs. Knowles, made Miss Fleming’s carriage, which was the talk of the

town, at the time of her marriage with Mr. Clemson. I have heard my

mother frequently speak of it. You remember it, do you not, Mrs. Payne?”

I asked, turning to Cornelia’s mother.

“Perfectly well, my dear,” replied this gentlest of all gentlewomen,

smiling at my sudden arousing. My tongue was now unloosened, and I felt

ready to measure swords, or the more feminine weapon, darning-needles,

with them all. I continued—

“I must scold my pretty, thoughtless friend, Mrs. Fenton, for deceiving

Miss Clemson. She assured us that only Mrs. Fay and ourselves would be

with her last evening; and you, Cornelia, were only invited, because I

had promised you and your mother to commence my visit here yesterday,

and Mrs. Fenton wanted to secure me, to accompany Mary Clemson. Mrs.

Fenton has been one of Miss Clemson’s most attentive friends, and Mrs.

Fay knew Mary’s mother when she was a girl. Mrs. Fay wanted to see Miss

Clemson on business, and was too infirm to go to her; she wishes Miss

Clemson to take charge of her nieces, the Miss Foresters.”

“What, our cousins the Foresters?” exclaimed the two Lees. “Why I think

Aunt Fay might have consulted with mamma about it,” continued the elder

one, “however, it will be a great thing for Miss Clemson to have them,

for the girls are immensely wealthy.”

“Yes, Miss Lee.” I replied, trying to be very calm. “But who would have

thought, when your aunt, the now rich Mrs. Fay, and your mother kept the

fashionable boarding school, at which Miss Fleming was educated, that

Miss Fleming’s daughter would in turn be governess to the nieces of Mrs.

Fay and her sister. Life has many strange reverses, Mr. Colton.”

Poor Steenie Colton, colored to the roots of his faded hair and

whiskers. I suppose he thought I was going to tell him of his

respectable old grandfather, who had kept a very nice meat and vegetable

store, but I spared him, for I felt I had said enough to my discomfited

gossips.

“Now tell me, Miss Lee,” I asked, “who all were at this evening party of

Lizzie Fenton’s.”

“It was no evening party, Miss Duval,” replied the young lady sulkily.

“Neither Ellen nor I have said so. Mr. Colton went in with us during the

evening to see Aunt Fay.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but did you go by invitation?”

“Why, Miss Duval?” inquired the younger one pertly, as her elder sister

answered me in the negative.

“Because,” I replied, “my friend has been accused of heartlessness and

want of feeling by one whom I respect, and to clear Miss Clemson in

Cornelia Payne’s opinion, is all I care for. Others may think as they

please of her, but Cornelia can appreciate such a noble good woman as

Mary Clemson.”

The conversation naturally flagged after this, and soon the morning

visiters bade us good day.

“Bravo!” cried Cornelia, after they all left, clapping her little hands

on my shoulders. “Bravo! Captain Duval, why you have routed my poor

little gossiping brigade completely, put them all to flight.”

“They are the most disagreeable people that visit us,” said Mrs. Payne;

“as for those silly Miss Lees, I wonder, Cornelia, how you can endure

them.”

“Oh, my dear mother,” replied the daughter, “it takes all sorts of

people to make up the world. You know old Patsie tells you that every

day. But, Enna, I must know this paragon of yours; we will call on her

together.”

I was about to remonstrate with Cornelia for her harsh and hasty

judgment, during the preceding conversation, but the entrance of some

other visiters prevented me.

I loved and respected Cornelia Payne; she was one of my dearest friends,

and, unlike most girls of her age—we were only nineteen then—she had a

strong, decided character. Her oddities did not spring from affectation,

nor did her warmly expressed opinions proceed from a spirit of arbitrary

obstinacy. She was true and sincere, and had a good, strong mind. She

had faults,—who has not? And her principal fault was a sad one, she was

harsh and uncharitable in her judgments of others. She had never known

trouble or temptation; and honest, firm, and upright herself, she always

judged every one by her own standard—a standard that had never been

tested by a single trial. Whenever we remonstrated with her, her replies

were such as “Nine times out of ten appearances are the best to judge

by,” or, “There is so much cant and affectation, so much petty falsehood

in society, that it makes one forget there is such a virtue as charity,”

or, “There are certain bounds to charity beyond which it ceases to be a

virtue, and becomes a weakness, and a cowardly shield to vice,” which

replies generally silenced me.

The evening following the conversation which opened this sketch, we were

all assembled in the _cozie_, comfortable library. Some friends had

called in, and, according to the too usual custom, the conversation

turned upon the absent. The subject of discourse was the conduct of two

persons, a husband and wife, with whom the company assembled were

sufficiently acquainted, to feel interested in their well or ill doings.

A few weeks previous the husband had made a most disgraceful failure,

and had been detected in various dishonorable transactions; whereupon

his wife, with whom he had always lived happily, apparently, left him,

and returned to her family; and since her desertion of him, her friends

had made application for a divorce. This was commented upon pretty

severely, and almost every one blamed the wife for her heartlessness;

and circumstances were mentioned to prove the uniform kindness and

lavish indulgence of the husband in the days of his prosperity. My

friend Cornelia was almost the only one of the party who defended her.

“That’s so like you, Cornelia,” said her cousin, Harry Peters, laughing,

“you always lake ‘the forlorne hope’ in an argument, and seize up the

cudgels for the minority.”

“You are unjust, Harry,” replied Cornelia, a little piqued, “I always

take the side of my opinion, and defend that which I think honest and

right. I scarcely know Mrs. Barclay, therefore, neither am I prejudiced,

for she is no favorite of mine; she always seemed to me a cold, selfish

woman, even when everybody, and you particularly, Harry, admired her so

much. But I do say, that I do not excuse, I uphold her conduct in this

matter. Even thus should I have acted had I been thus placed, guided by

a strict sense of duty. I could love as devotedly and truly as any of

you, but my love would wither away, under the scorching breath of

dishonor and crime.”

The conversation grew very animated, and all spoke at once, to express

their decided opposition to Cornelia, but she stoutly defended her

position.

“True, Cornelia,” said her mother, “your love might be weakened, but

would that change of feeling justify desertion?”

“It would not be desertion, mother,” replied Cornelia, “it would be

fleeing from the plague spot of sin. No one has a right to subject their

spiritual nature to the degrading influence of daily association with

crime.”

This was what Harry Peters playfully called, “one of Cornelia’s grand,

solemn, rhetorical conclusions,” which generally silenced all further

debate, without convincing any one; but often, in after hours of sorrow,

Cornelia’s figure and countenance, as she looked during this

conversation, would come before me, with painful distinctness. In her

earnestness she had arisen from her seat, and her fine, tall figure

seemed dilated with indignation, while her beautiful face was stern and

severe as that of the avenging Archangel.

Poor Cornelia! _then_, she knew not what trouble was. Her father was a

prosperous merchant, and her mother was a gentle, delicate woman, who

rarely interfered with any one, except to do some sweet office of love.

Cornelia was a complete contrast to both of her parents; for her father,

a bright, joyous, warm-hearted man, was even weakly indulgent to others.

They were a loving, happy family, and Cornelia, although stern and

severe to what she called error, was enthusiastic in her love for her

family, ready to sacrifice any thing for them, if occasion required. I

always felt improved in spirit as well as in body, after a visit to

them, for they all seemed to enjoy life so healthily and properly.

Possessing ample means, and in the midst of a pleasant circle of

friends, they appeared to be exempt from humanity’s penalty—trouble.

But sunshine dwelleth not always with us, and every light hath its

shadow.

I had not been many days with my friends when I observed that the kind,

good natured father was not in his usual spirits. It was in the spring,

following the winter of 183—, a sad winter to commercial men in ——;

and long will it be remembered as a season of trying reverses. Mrs.

Payne did not notice the change in her husband; his health was not so

strong as usual, which would have accounted for his heaviness had she

noticed it; then, fortunately, her younger children monopolized her

attention; but Cornelia, I very soon saw, both noticed and felt the

change in her father’s manner.

One pleasant, soft morning, Mrs. Payne being too much engaged with some

home duties, to accompany us on a shopping or visiting excursion,

Cornelia and I concluded to take a long drive out of the town, that we

might enjoy the refreshing spring air. The trees were just budding, and

Nature was unfolding a light, tender green mantle of foliage. We took

long breaths of the delicious air, and it seemed as if the heavy cloud,

which hung around us all in town, was dispelled completely, under the

genial influence of the youthful spring. Cornelia was brighter, and as

we pointed out to each other striking bits of the landscape, or noticed

the graceful branches of the trees, and the delicate hues of the

blossoms, we chanted aloud, passages from the old English poets, who so

particularly rejoiced in, and welcomed so melodiously, the “Coming of

the longed-for May.” How vividly does my memory recal every word uttered

during that drive. I remember quoting with gleeful spirit, a verse from

Herrick, which is full of that bounding, flowing melody that is heard in

wild wood and dell, Nature’s own music.

“Rise and put on your foliage and be seen

To come forth like the spring time fresh and green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;

Fear not the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides the childhood of the day has kept,

Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.”

As the horses’ heads turned homeward Cornelia’s gayety faded away, and

after a few moments of serious silence, she looked up and said,

“My dear, own Enna, I am very much afraid we are about to have some

heavy trouble to contend with.”

“Why, Cornelia?” was my reply, for as this was the first time she had

spoken to me of her presentiment of sorrow, I did not wish to add to it,

by letting her know that I likewise had observed the cause for it. She

told me that she could not tell why she anticipated this trouble; that

she knew nothing certain, but she had, like myself, noticed a change in

her father—something of moment she was sure must be resting heavily on

his mind, for he had not had his usual spirits for some time.

“At night,” said she, “when my dear mother is asleep, I hear him walking

his dressing-room sometimes until day-dawn. Mother says he is not well,

but I am very confident that it is not sickness of the body that affects

him; it is, I fear, sickness of the mind; and yet how foolish, if it be

pecuniary difficulties, to grieve so much about it and keep it from us.”

“He knows, dear Cornelia,” I replied, “how unfit his family are to bear

reverses of fortune. You alone are able to bear up against loss of

means.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, “God only knows what is coming, but I pray He

may send strength when the dark hour of trial does burst upon us.”

Poor girl, she did not know how much her father needed her prayer at

that very moment, for the hour of trial had arrived to him, and strength

was indeed wanting.

At dinner Mrs. Payne received a note from her husband, in which he said,

that he would not be at home, until late in the evening, as he was very

busy at the counting-house. The meal was a silent one, for even Mrs.

Payne looked serious, and expressed her anxiety for her husband’s

health, which she feared might be injured by over-exertion. As we arose

from the dinner table, Mrs. Payne put her arm affectionately around

Cornelia, and said,

“Come, my daughter, give us some of your beautiful music, something that

is very brilliant to enliven us, for we are rather heavy this evening.”

I knew well that Cornelia was unfit for any exertion, and as we entered

the gay, light drawing-room I seated myself at the piano, and asked Mrs.

Payne if my music would not answer the purpose as well as Cornelia’s.

Cornelia’s eyes expressed such a world of thanks, that I felt quite

repaid for the effort—for effort it was—and soon after I noticed that

she quietly slipped out of the room. Mrs. Payne was passionately fond of

music, and I sang and played for her, nearly two hours. She was a fine

harpist, though she seldom played, but I even prevailed upon her, to

play with me some harp duets. While we were in the midst of a brilliant

piece, the waiter entered, and said that Mr. Payne wished to see me in

the library.

“Mr. Payne at home?” inquired Mrs. Payne.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the man, “he has been in some time, but has been

busy with some gentleman in the library.”

“Some news for you from home, Enna, dear,” said Mrs. Payne quietly. “I

suppose Mr. Payne thinks we have company with us, we are so musical, and

he feels too tired to come up.”

“Very likely.” I answered with forced calmness, glad that her easy,

happy disposition prevented her from feeling the sad apprehensions which

had chilled my heart at the summons. I knew, from the expression of the

waiter’s face, that something was wrong, and as I reached the lower hall

he said to me, as he left me,

“Miss Cornelia’s very sick in the library, Miss Enna.”

I opened the library-door, and Heaven grant such another sight may never

be presented to me again. On a lounge lay Cornelia, partly insensible,

and before her knelt her father, not in trouble for her sickness only,

but in anguish, deep, heart-rending anguish. In low tones he besought

his child to open her eyes, to look at him, and tell him she did not

despise him. I saw the insensibility was passing off, and I raised her

head and moistened her lips with some water. As I took the water from

the table, I saw on it a case of pistols, over which I hastily threw my

handkerchief, though chilled and trembling with fear of I scarcely knew

what. When I raised Cornelia, and Mr. Payne saw her returning

consciousness, he shrunk, like a guilty thing, behind a large,

old-fashioned screen, that stood partly in front of the lounge. Cornelia

stared wildly around.

“Where is father?” she exclaimed, and before I could answer, she darted

from the lounge, and was about leaving the room, when she heard his low,

suppressed groan; quick as thought she was beside him. She covered his

hands, that hid his face, with kisses—she soothed him with every

affectionate endearing word, and as he cowered to the ground, she raised

him as a mother would a child. They sat on the lounge together, her arms

encircled him tenderly, while her lips rested on his brow, that was

wrinkled with heavy lines of anguish.

“My dear, dear father,” she said, “have you forgotten your daughter,

your Cornelia, who could not live without you? Come, come, I was only a

little sick; it is all over now, and Enna Duval is here, to take care of

us both. Come, cheer up; think of mother, and Tom, and Cassy, and all

the dear ones. We are all left to you yet.”

Thus she tenderly soothed him, and I, seeing that she was so much

stronger, thought I had better leave the room. As I put my hand on the

door, Cornelia gave a low cry of alarm, I turned and saw that Mr. Payne

was in violent convulsions. In a little while the best physicians in

town were summoned, and Mr. Payne declared to be in great danger, for

his disease was a raging brain fever. For days we watched beside his

bed—Cornelia and I—for with nervous anxiety she kept every one from

her father that she could. He raved incessantly of disgrace and crime,

and during his agonized ravings, my poor friend would weep bitterly. I

never saw such devoted tenderness as Cornelia displayed during this

fearful illness. At one time death seemed almost inevitable, but as Mr.

Payne possessed a good constitution, and had always been a man of

regular habits, he rallied under this sickness, which would have proved

fatal to most men. But when the delirium left him, and he opened his

languid eyes beaming, though dimly, with the light of reason, their

expression of anguish was painful indeed. Cornelia was beside him, her

arms around him, and the sweetest, tenderest words of love fell from her

lips to greet his returning senses.

“Then, my daughter,” he said in a low, feeble whisper, “you do not hate

and despise your father.”

No words could express the deep love of Cornelia’s embrace, and with

soothing, tender expressions she sought to quiet him, which succeeded,

for he sunk back in her arms with a calm, peaceful smile on his sad,

care-worn face.

Mr. Payne grew gradually better, dear reader, and during the hours of

convalescence, when I was at different times alone with him, he told me

the sad scene which had occurred previous to his sending for me to the

library. He had been staggering under a load of business difficulties

for some time, as Cornelia had suspected, but could not bear to look

upon his affairs as they really were. He could not summon strength and

courage to come to his wife, and tell her that all the fine fortune her

father had left, was gone, that she and her children were penniless. Day

after day he struggled on,—difficulties increased, and in a moment of

desperation, to relieve himself of a pressing demand, he added the crime

of forgery to the load of debt; hoping to relieve himself before he

should be discovered.

This happened on the day, at the very time of our drive, when Cornelia

was praying for strength. He had some days before written to a business

firm in a neighboring town for assistance. Upon them he had some, yes,

great claims, for ten years before his capital had established them in

business; and he anxiously looked for an answer to his demand, in order

to relieve himself before any one could discover his weak act. Late in

the afternoon he received, instead of the frank, friendly aid he

expected, a cold, short refusal. He staggered home. The enormity of his

offence increased upon him, and as he reached his home, the

consciousness of having added disgrace to poverty, almost set him wild.

He went first into the library, which was in the lower part of the

house, because, as he said, the sound of music and gayety that came from

the drawing-room, maddened him. He had scarcely entered the room when

the hall-bell rang, and the servant ushered into the dimly lighted

library, a gentleman; and as he heard his name announced, Mr. Payne

shuddered,—it was the very name he had used unlawfully, a few hours

before. It was a young merchant of great property, which he had

inherited from his father.

“I have come, Mr. Payne,” said the young man, as the servant closed the

door, “to return to your hands a paper which you must destroy. No human

being knows of it, but you and myself—and believe me, my dear sir,” he

added, in a voice trembling with feeling, as the guilty man buried his

face in his hands, groaning aloud, “believe me, I am certain, that

great, great must have been the temptation—the trial that goaded

Hartley Payne to such an act; and I thank God! it was upon me—upon the

son of Jacob Hallett you did it. You befriended my father in the dark

hour of poverty, you helped him up on the stepping-stone to fortune, and

had you come to me in your emergency for this money,—that and double,

and thrice treble the amount, should have been freely yours.”

Young Hallett then tore the note into a thousand pieces and burned it.

“I thank you,” said Mr Payne in a hoarse voice, “you have saved me from

disgrace which is worse than death; but you must leave me now, and when

I am more composed I will express to you my gratitude.”

“Not until you will promise me,” answered young Hallett, “that you will

let me come to you to-morrow, and give me the satisfaction of assisting

you in your trouble.”

Mr. Payne took the kind young man’s proffered hand, and pressing it,

assured him, in broken words, that he would accept his offer; and young

Hallett seeing that Mr. Payne was really suffering from the humiliation

and mortification which his presence caused him, left him.

Mr. Payne walked up and down the room once or twice. He felt like a

maniac. The crime he had committed stood before him in letters of fire.

Maddened with remorse, he opened an escritoir, and taking from it a case

of pistols, which were loaded, he laid it upon the table. Calmly he

snapped the spring of the case, and throwing back the lid, took out one

of the pistols, which he held deliberately to his head. As he did this,

he heard a low shriek beside him, and with a strong grasp, the pistol

was taken from his hand. He turned—and beside him stood Cornelia.

She had been in the library all the while. She had come there from the

drawing-room after dinner, to watch for her father’s return, and had

fallen asleep on the lounge, which was hidden by the large old screen

that stood between it and the door. Her sleep was heavy from exhaustion,

and she had not awakened until Mr. Hallett had entered; this aroused

her, and with chilling horror she heard the whole conversation between

them. After he left the room, she lay stunned, and was only aroused by

the click of the escritoir lock. This startled her, and she sprang to

her feet, just in time to save her father’s life. The revulsion was so

great, that she sank to the floor, insensible, and then it was he sent

for me.

Mr. Payne knew Cornelia’s stern, severe opinions; he remembered also how

she always shrunk from all those who had been guilty of even venial

sins, and he felt more keenly, the mortification of his crime before

her, than before any other living being. But so beautifully, so

tenderly, and respectfully did she bear herself toward him, that one

might have fancied she had forgotten every thing but the fear of losing

her father. He grew stronger, and as soon as his health was restored he

courageously examined his affairs.

Young Hallett, who during Mr. Payne’s sickness had been an excellent and

efficient friend, was of great service. Every thing was given up, the

magnificent town house, the carriages and horses, the plate, and every

luxury; but my friends looked very happy in their pleasant country home,

and though quite humble was their style of living, they scarcely seemed

to miss their former splendor.

Even the tender, delicate Mrs. Payne, who had been born and reared in

luxury, and for whom we had all trembled, bore the reverse of fortune as

brightly and philosophically as Cornelia. But the most beautiful sight

was the great change that had taken place in my friend Cornelia’s

character. All sternness, all severity had vanished, and the gentlest

spirit of Christian, loving charity displayed itself in every word,

every act of hers.

“Sweet are the uses adversity,” I often repeated to myself, when looking

at her. Toward her father she always displayed the most delicate and

affectionate respect, and the children no longer found in her a stern,

close judging Mentor, but a kind, loving, indulgent companion.

Three years after, a gay party assembled at Mr. Payne’s little country

house. It was the wedding party of our dear Cornelia, who was the bride

of Mr. Hallett. She is now the mistress of a fine establishment, and had

the satisfaction of seeing her father once more comfortable. He was for

many years associated in business with his son-in-law, and no one ever

knew or dreamed that the highly respected Hartley Payne, of the wealthy

firm of Hallett & Payne, was once on the verge of disgraceful ruin.

* * * * *

BALLADS OF THE CAMPAIGN IN MEXICO. NO. IV.

BY HENRY KIRBY BENNER, U. S. A.

[Illustration: Death of Najira.]

AN INCIDENT OF MONTEREY.

(FROM THE MEXICAN OF FERNANDO GARCIA.)

IT was morn on the Mother of Mountains,[1]

While, curling like incense, away

Rose the mists from the Eden-like valley,

In which lay our loved Monterey:—

In the distance was green San Domingo,

Where, wearied, in silent repose,

Slept the ranks of the resolute Saxon,

The files of our conquering foes.

On the edge of the hills, in our eyry,

Like statues, we silently stood—

Our cavalry guarding the mountain,

Our infantry watching the wood.

We gazed on our beautiful city,

We thought of the stain on our name.

And we swore that the sun of our country

Should never descend on our shame!

Like a knight, in his saddle Najira[2]

Sat, watching the foeman with smiles,

As they mounted the rugged sierra,

And marched through its craggy defiles;

And he laughed, as he turned to the vultures

That circled and soared overhead,

Coming down from their nests in the mountains

To fatten and gorge on the dead.

On, like wolves, came the reckless invader:

We heard the huzzas of their men,

Now low, in the depth of the forest,

Now loud, when they formed in the glen;

And we saw the bright gleam of their muskets

Flash and fade through the emerald trees.

And the crimson and white of their banner

As it rippled and flowed on the breeze.

Arising erect in his stirrups,

Najira looked round on his band,

And his eye flashed as brightly and keenly

As the brand that he held in his hand:

“For your altars—your country, her honor!

Your daughters, your sires and your wives,

Be warriors—be heroes,” he shouted,

“And conquer, or yield up your lives!”

On they came, and we looked on our leader,

Who paused ere he gave us the word;

His dark eye was pregnant with passion,

His hand clutched the hilt of his sword;

But a moment, and down, like the whirlwind,

Steed and man, in the pride of our might.

We plunged on the ruthless invader,

And swam in the hell of the fight!

Our noble, chivalric Najira,

Over rock, through defile and ravine,

Wherever the danger was darkest,

Wherever a foeman was seen,

Led the charge, as, in old, Alvarado

And Cortez, again and again,

Led the Spaniard to conquest and glory

Over many a Mexican plain.

And his men, full of ardor, with vivas,

Pursued where the enemy fled—

The hoofs of their horses disfiguring

The faces and forms of the dead;

And ever the shout of Najira

Was heard in the din of the fray,

As he swooped, like his own native eagle,

With fire-flashing eyes, on his prey.

Full of terror the traitorous Texan,[3]

That stain on the Mexican name,

Gave way in dismay, as Najira

Plunged on in his passion for fame.

As, pursuing, he wheeled round the mountain

And swept like a storm through the gorge,

From an ambuscade, deep in the forest,

Their guns flushed like sparks from a forge.

Their cannon swept o’er us and through us;

Their rifles rained death on the field:

We had sworn by the Mother of Jesus

To conquer, but never to yield:

Down, down, where he fought fell each hero,

Horse and man, one by one, where he stood;

And the sands of the rugged sierra

Were crimson with Mexican blood.

Like a lion at bay rode Najira:

Not one of the troop that he led

But was stretched on the side of the mountain—

Thick strown with the dying and dead.

His coat and his saddle were bloody;

He reeled in his seat as he strove

To strike once again for his country,

Once again for the land of his love.

All alone, all alone did he battle.

Disdaining to yield, or to fly;

He had failed, as he promised, to conquer,

And nothing was left but to—die!

“Surrender! surrender!” his foemen,

Full of wonder, entreatingly cried,

As, defying, he galloped his charger

Along the sierra’s steep side.

Down, down, at each stroke an invader

Sank wounded, and gasping, and dead,

As he galloped from foeman to foeman,

His sword, waved in scorn, overhead.

But the bullet at last rent his bosom,

And down, from the cliff to the plain,

Rolled the form of the dying Najira,

The bravest and best of the slain.

Weep, weep, for the gallant Najira!

For never will Mexico own

So heroic, so gallant a soldier,

So fearless, so faultless a son!

On his tomb lay your chaplets of laurel,

And, Maidens of Mexico, pray

For the soul of the knightly Najira—

Pray, Maidens of Mexico, pray!

NOTES.

[1] The Sierra Madre.

[2] Lieutenant-colonel Don Juan Najira, (pronounced Nah-_hee_-ra,) led

the Guanjuato regiment in its attack on General Worth’s division, on the

morning of the 21st September. He was as brave as the Chevalier Bayard,

the knight “_sans peur, et sans reproche_.” RIPLEY, in his “War with

Mexico,” says of him, that—“In spite of wounds he refused to surrender,

and struggled on, until, at length, he fell from his horse, and rolled,

dead, down the side of the mountain.”

[3] “The traitorous Texan,” an epithet which is purely Mexican, as the

ballad is supposed to be the product of a Mexican bard. The retreat of

the Texan regiment, however, is a historical fact; but the Mexican

lancers paid dearly for their short-lived triumph: not a man of them (I

quote Ripley) survived.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

LOITERINGS AND LIFE

ON THE GREAT PRAIRIES OF THE WEST.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

A LOVE STORY OF THE PRAIRIES.

ABOUT the year 1820, among the Sioux, on Teton river, was a young chief

whose reputation had extended throughout the West, and excited the envy

and wonder, not only of the warriors of his own nation, but of every

tribe, from the Chippeways, who paddle bark canoes on the western lakes,

to the root-digging Shoshones at the base of the Rocky Mountains; and

far and near the hearts of the young Indian girls were taken captive by

the rude chivalry which added brilliancy to his invariable success. Like

many other heroes, with his early history was mingled not a little of

the fabulous and superhuman, and what was most singular, was, that there

appeared to be some grounds for this belief, it being well known that he

was not a Sioux by birth—a hunting-party of that tribe having found

him, when a mere infant, lying in the open prairie, partially wrapped in

a white buffalo-robe, a string of grisly-bear’s teeth around his neck,

and an eagle-feather in his little clenched hand—all unmistakable

evidences of exalted birth. The tradition did not stop here, for if the

testimony of some was to be credited, a great war-eagle was perceived

soaring away into the blue, from whose talons, beyond doubt, the child

must have dropped. One thing was certain, the insignia of a chief about

the young stranger admitted of no dispute, and accordingly as a chief

and with no small care was he reared.

But now that Ta-his-ka (“the white buffalo,” a name given him by the

Sioux, from the robe in which he was found) had grown, young as he was,

to be the most prominent warrior and successful hunter from the Pacific

to the Mississippi, it appeared that his parentage was not so celestial

as had been by some imagined, for the Pawnees formally demanded the

chief as one of themselves; and to prove their priority of right,

described minutely a scar on his hip, which, whether really what they

claimed it to be, or a mark of which they had obtained secret

information and craftily turned to account, was found to be as they had

described. The only result of this extraordinary proposal was a storm of

words in the Tepe-wah-kah (council-house) of the Sioux, directed against

the audacity of the Pawnees, and an amount of hate cherished between the

two tribes which filled some of the lodges with scalps and others with

wailing as well on the Teton, as in the vicinity of the River Platte.

Ta-his-ka himself both in the council and on the prairies was foremost

in opposing the Pawnees, and the trophies torn from these last were

neither few nor bloodless when the young chief headed a hunting party

whose search was more frequently after the hunters of the buffaloes than

the herds themselves. But the latter were not readily baffled, and

bringing all their ingenuity into play to entrap his person, succeeded

at last one day in decoying Ta-his-ka into a ravine, where his braves

were every man slain, and he himself, while performing feats worthy of a

copper-colored Achilles, stunned by an arrow and disarmed

instantaneously. Overjoyed at having in their possession one whose

presence they superstitiously believed to be a pledge of good luck to

their lodges, the captors hastened homeward, guarding him with the

utmost vigilance, but always refraining from binding his limbs, as they

did not despair now by large promises and offers to induce him to

acknowledge his Pawnee paternity. Accordingly, the chiefs loaded him

with honors and caresses, and made him proffers of squaws, horses,

lodges, robes, and, in short, every thing which constitutes savage

wealth; to all of which he listened with a contemptuous indifference and

total silence, which was sufficient answer in itself. At this time there

existed among the Pawnees a custom probably derived originally from the

Mandans, remains of whose villages are to be seen even so low down the

Missouri as the mouth of the Platte, the words used to designate it

being found in the latter tongue; this custom was to select every

alternate ten years the most beautiful female child of the tribe, who

was placed under the strict guardianship of two old squaws, without whom

she left the medicine-lodge neither day nor night, and between whom she

was obliged to sleep until her term of years expired, in order that she

might be a pure sacrifice to the Evil Spirit during the feast of green

corn, at the termination of the ten years, when, in the midst of

barbarous ceremonies, games, etc., the victim suddenly disappeared no

one but the medicine-men knew where. This doomed girl was called

MAH-PEN’KE’KA-MORSE,[4] (wife of the Evil Spirit,) and they supposed,

caused the fiend to abstain from injuring the tribe to which he was

related by marriage. Now as Ta-his-ka was believed to be in some sort

supernatural, one of the divisions of the medicine-lodge was assigned

him, and the partitions in an Indian house being neither so impervious

to sight nor bodily passage as plastered walls, a most unheard-of thing

took place—the appointed squaw of the Evil One yielded up her heart and

person to the illustrious prisoner, eluding nightly the vigilance of her

duennas. As for Ta-his-ka, he loved for the first time, and with all the

resistless passion of a wild but earnest soul; thus, although he was

brought every moon before the council of chiefs, and the former offers

renewed only to be answered by the same stern silence, (for no man had

heard him speak since his capture,) he made no attempt at escape,

contenting himself with merely food enough to sustain life, and scorning

to touch the prairie delicacies daily set before him.

So light were, meanwhile, the feet of the girl, or so heavy the eyes of

her ancient guardians, that none dreamed of the secret intercourse; and

even when the condition of the former could no longer be concealed,

strange to say, the medicine-men overlooked the proximity of the

handsome captive, and concluded their evil-divinity willed to bestow on

their nation one of his own offspring, who might in time assume the

place proffered to the obstinate Ta-his-ka. But when the infant proved

to be a girl, they were at a loss to determine whether their hero was to

be born of this squaw, when arrived at woman’s years, or whether by the

preference shown to the present wife above all precedent, it was his

wish to protract her existence.

While they still debated the matter, an end was put to their discussions

in rather a startling manner; maternal affection and love for the chief

from whom she had been parted some weeks, got the better of prudence,

and in the act of bearing the infant to her husband, (for the marriage

rites are simple enough in the Great West,) a cry from the former at

last aroused the duennas, and the whole was as clear as day even to

their purblind eyes.

What a commotion was then in the village! the old witches were

immediately put to death, and the unfortunate three reserved only until

preparations for their torture could be made on a scale equivalent to

the crime. All apathy had suddenly disappeared from the noble face of

the Sioux chief, his voice was found, and dauntlessly acknowledging his

child, offered to lead them against whomsoever they desired, if they

would give him the Ka-morse for a squaw. But the tide had now turned as

strongly against him as it had formerly flowed in his favor, and his

proposal was received with rage and horror. They both bound his limbs,

and surrounded the hut to which he was removed with a circle of braves

who slept as near to one another as might be reached with the arm; but

the White-buffalo was now at bay, and resistless as of old. In spite of

these precautions, on the second morning after the discovery, one of the

warriors was found stiff, with a knife in his heart, and despoiled of

his weapons, two others at the entrance of the medicine-lodge as

effectually silenced, and the two squaws who had been bound, one on each

side of the young mother, strangled in their sleep, the cords cut, and

their captive flown; in short, Ta-his-ka had gnawed through, or found

means of severing his bonds, and after liberating his wife and child,

had carried them off on his own horse, deliberately selected. Such a

feat astounded the Pawnees, but quietly recovering from their stupor,

every horse was bestrode, and the whole body of warriors gave chase; the

trail of the fugitives being easily found and pursued. After many hours

of vain pursuit, however, and when they had found time to consider the

hopelessness of recapturing on the open prairie a warrior noted for his

own craft and endurance, as well as the wonderful strength and size of

his steed, they resolved to refrain from farther pursuit, but to send

after the fugitives an enemy, which, with the high southern wind then

blowing, must overtake them before the sun went down—a terrible

messenger on the prairies, indeed—_fire_.

It was already past mid-day and Ta-his-ka had repeatedly turned his face

to speak encouraging words to the young wife, while with covert

uneasiness he watched the volumes of pale smoke rolling up from the line

of horizon far behind, and now that they had entered one of those vast

luxuriant bottoms so dreaded, even by the Indians, in autumn, although

nothing but the sky overhead could be perceived, through the parted tops

of the tall grass and reeds, it was no longer to be hidden even from the

terrified Ka-Morse, that a dimness had spread above not occasioned by

clouds, and that the scent of fire grew every moment less faint and

uncertain. The bottom lands to which I have referred as so pregnant with

danger during conflagrations on the prairies, can scarcely be called

such, as they extend for leagues, and are not to the eye sensibly lower

than the greater portion of the surrounding plain; yet that there is

some depression may be deduced from the frequent humidity of the soil,

and the wild luxuriance of the grass, rising to the height of eight or

ten feet, and matted together about the stalks with innumerable

pea-vines, from which causes a horseman can pursue no other route than

the trails made by the files of buffaloes, and as these are often

tortuous and winding in the last degree, it sometimes occurs that

Indians or traders have found themselves enclosed between these

combustible hedges, turning in every direction, when the whirlwind of

fire behind would leave them little prospect of escape in a straight

line and on the open prairie. And in this imminent risk must we leave

the fugitives, and allow Jean, now that he comes into the simple

narrative as an actor, to continue the story in his own words as nearly

as I can recall them.

“Voilà!” cried Jean, standing up in his stirrups and reaching as high as

he could with the hand, from which he had let fall his rein, “de grass

was tall _comme ça_, oh, vere tall, and I could see not’ing mais smoke,

smoke, and hear de rattlin’ _terrible_ ven de fire leap into de

canebrake like de—what you call?—volley ob de ten thousands mousquets.

Den de little deer and de big deer, and de bears, and de painters, was

all runnin’ deir best to save deir hide from scorchin; and de

prairie-hens drop down and rise up and drop down agen—and it was all

like one big oven! _Mais—hola! j’ai oublié_ de buffalo, which was more

worse dan all—he bellow and tear along on dis hand and on dat—_je la

confesse_, I was vere much afraid dat a big bull would choose de trail I

was in, and punce mon cheval in de hind part wid his horn!

“Presently, I look behind—_ah, miséricorde!_ de grass was carry by de

win’ en avant, all in de blaze, and w’ere it fall, it was one new fire

_immédiatement_! Den I say to myself, Ah, Jean Moreau, _mon brave_, you

will be roast alive, and dere is no help for it—and de beautiful skins

will be lost in dis dam fire! _mais_, at de word, something say, not

loud out, but softly—‘Quelle sottise! why you not pray, eh? better dan

curse!’ Eh bien, good, I say—I will pray! _Mais, I have not any

prayers!_ Enfin, je remembre—je dis in de voice haute, ‘Malbrouc s’en

va’t’en querre;’ and—what do I see? Oh, quelle joie—de grass not so

high, and in de front a short hill! I gallop up—I am on de pieds—I am

strike a light—I blow vere softly, den more hard—de grass is in one

blaze—de win’ take de fire—de black spot is dere w’ere I stan, and—I

am save! Den I feel de heart vere light, I smile at myself—I smile at

de horse, I rub my hand, and walk about—eh bien, _I was vere

comfortàble_! Presently I look; oh, misericorde! voila—voila de

diable—misericorde! and I run to hide, for I was vere much scare; but

dere was no place to hide. Den I look agen, and it was not de diable,

mais one Ingen vere burn, and on de face in de grass. I make haste, I

pull him out ob de fire—dere was one leetle drop in de canteen—ah, ha!

dat bring back de life.

“Mais w’en de life was com’, he would have lose it _immèdiatement_, if I

had not hold on to de horse. ‘Hola!’ I say, ‘you burn your own self, but

you not roast _mon cheval—non, non_!’

“Den he look at me hard, and strike his breast, and talk in Ingen.

“‘Hist! de chief and his squaw and little one saw de fire yonder. Look!

de prairie lies black, and de chief is here, but de squaw and little one

are in de belly of de chief’s horse!’

“‘What is dat?’ I cry, bien surpris. ‘Dans son ventre! oh sacre!

malheur—quel diable of a horse! Mais, what for you let him eat up your

squaw, eh?’

“‘_Non, non!_’ he cry; ‘w’en de fire was vere close, he kills son

cheval, and in de skin roll up de squaw, voyez?’

“Ah, dat was better—bien good! j’étais satisfait, moi!”

This was the most stirring part of Jean’s narrative, and therefore to

save time and patience, I will relate the remainder, not in his but my

words. The night was so dark, from the smoke obscuring the sky, that

none but an Indian could have found his way back to where Jean had sat

composedly, after watching the chief disappear toward the south on the

former’s horse. Back he came, however, after the lapse of some hours,

with a cheerful whoop, bearing in his arms his wife and child, the green

skin having protected them while the fierce element swept over their

heads.

The brave (for as yet Jean was ignorant of even the name of his

companion) professed to be acquainted with the prairie thereabouts, and

led them half a mile to an island in a moist hollow, which had not been

touched by the conflagration; and here they all supped on the jerked

meat which Jean chanced to have with him, all game being effectually

frighted away. There is no need of following them on their journey,

which was generally in the neighborhood of the Missouri, for the sake of

the deer and buffalos which had fled for refuge to the wooded ravines

and valleys intersecting the banks, the young squaw and child riding,

while the men walked at her side. Not far from the mouth of the Teton

river they parted company, Jean to proceed to the station of the

American Fur Company, and Ta-his-ka to rejoin his tribe, the former

insisting on the horse being retained for the use of the young mother,

whose slender frame had begun to waste away under a continuance of

fatigue and excitement, for which the peculiar nature of her former

life, so different from that of ordinary Indian girls, had rendered her

totally unfit. There Jean learned for the first time the name of the

chief—one long familiar to his ears—and the events already narrated.

He had not been more than a week at the company’s fort, when, with marks

of the deepest grief and rage stamped on his countenance, Ta-his-ka

presented himself before him; the child lay mutely in his arms, but no

squaw—where was she?

“Ee-ohk paze!” (dark-dead,) was the laconic answer, but accompanied by a

twitching of the mouth-corners, which showed how the fierce spirit was

moved. It seemed that the numerous enemies jealousy of his fame and

power had created among the Sioux, had taken advantage of the

White-buffalo’s prolonged absence, to spread the most injurious and

unfounded reports of his deeds, and growing bolder by degrees, asserted

openly that Ta-his-ka had abandoned his tribe, delivered up the warriors

who followed him to the knives of the Pawnees, and, won over by their

gifts and promises, become a Pawnee himself. Thus when the chief

re-appeared, he was charged before the council of braves with treachery

of the most abhorrent kind, and his Pawnee wife cited as a proof of

their accusations; and but for his well-remembered strength and

resistless fortune, which no one cared to dispute, even his proud and

indignant denial would scarcely have delivered him from his former

companions on the war-path.

But the frail flower from the Platte had drooped and died on the return,

and it was his wish now to leave the child in charge of some one to whom

it might be safely intrusted. Jean related the circumstances to the wife

of one of the company’s officers, who immediately adopted the infant

until the chief should return to claim it. Thus it was that Wah (snow)

had surprised us by the correctness of her English in the chief’s lodge;

for even after he had become once more a powerful chief, he contented

himself with occasional and secret visits to the station, and did not

carry her home until about a year previous to our visit. The rest of the

story may be told in a few words. Ta-his-ka crossed the river and

wandered on until he arrived at a village of the Ioways. These people

pleased him, and they were equally gratified by the presence of a

warrior whose feats in their hunts or games appeared every day more

marvelous; for, until the Pawnees, who had traced the fugitive to his

retreat, claimed his person with threats, they were ignorant of the

renown of their guest. The Ioways were too proud of their acquisition to

pay much heed to the repeated menaces of the ambassadors, and their

principal chief dying about that time, they chose the Sioux by

acclamation to lead them against the Pawnees of the Platte. The old fire

now returned to Ta-his-ka’s breast—he was once more the terrible

_medicine_ chief, (“Wakon,”) and the scourge of his old enemies, who,

losing more scalps in each skirmish than they could hope to regain while

the White-Buffalo led on, presently petitioned that the hatchet might be

buried, and conducted themselves with a crafty obsequiousness Ta-his-ka

took no pains to conceal his contempt of; and, in fact, as in the

instance occurring the night of our stay in his village, by stern

opposition to their evil plottings, occasionally brought to light the

smouldering hate lurking in their breasts. The story of _Wah_—the

snow-flake—which I heard nearly two years afterward, if less wild than

that of her mother, the young Ka-morse, was more touching, and more

tinged with delicate romance—one of those gentle episodes in the stir

of prairie life, like the soft down under the bristling feathers of the

fierce war-eagle’s wings.

-----

[4] Mandan.

* * * * *

THE MIGHT OF SONG.

An extract from a Poem delivered by W. H. C. HOSMER before the

Literary Societies of Hamilton College, July, 1848.

IF we were chained forever to the Real,

God’s benison would be indeed withdrawn;

Without rich glimpses of the bright Ideal

In vain would morning dawn.

Upward, on pinions of sublime devotion,

The soul would cleave its native sky no more,

But loathsome grow—a pool devoid of motion,

Foul to its weedy floor.

Our grosser nature ever strives to win us

From worship of the beautiful and bright,

And deaf are many to the voice within us

That whispers “_seek the light!_”

Not they alone work faithfully who labor

On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life;

The clerkly pen can vanquish when the sabre

Is useless in the strife.

In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters,

Launching his thoughts like arrows from the bow,

Oft strikes at Treason, and his base abettors,

Bringing their grandeur low.

Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen

That curse a country he can scare away,

Or in the wake of Error marshal foemen

Impatient for the fray.

Scorn not the Sons of Song! or deem them only

Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of Time;

Although they move in walks retired and lonely,

They have their tasks sublime.

When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley,

Calling the birth-right of the brave their own,

Around the tomb of Liberty they rally,

And roll away the stone:—

Or, roused by some dark peril, they have written

Words that awe Guilt behind his guarded wall,

Or, by the lightning of their numbers smitten,

Beheld the Bigot fall.

Though fierce, unbridled passions, running riot,

Hiss like Medusa’s vipers in the breast,

The witchcraft of harmonic sound can quiet

The turmoil into rest.

Who through the chieftain’s castle-hall is stealing

With the light foot-fall of some beast of prey,

While vengeance hushes every softer feeling,

Nerving his arm to slay?

Where is his home? To flame its roof was given,

And heavy clouds above the ruin lower—

While the dread foe, by whom his soul was riven,

Unwarned, is in his power.

Where are his kinsmen? Ask the fox and raven

That feed upon their corpses gashed and red;

And will he now turn back a trembling craven—

What, what arrests his tread?

Young Annot Lyle, her Highland clairshack waking,

Trills an old ballad to remembrance dear—

And dagger-hilt his rugged hand forsaking

Brushes away the tear.

Lo! the proud Norman and his host are flying,

While in pursuit, with fierce, triumphant cheers,

That drown the groans of horse and rider dying,

Press on the Saxon spears.

What stays their flight? The song of Rolla rising

In angry swell above the dreadful roar—

Again they charge!—the bolts of death despising,

And Harold’s reign is o’er.

Dread Power of Song! whose voice can thus awaken

Notes that consign an empire to the grave;

Or, when recoils a host by panic shaken,

From rout the valiant save.

The fearful mantle that the seer is wearing

Derives from thee its tints of living fire—

And higher mounts Philosophy when sharing

The wealth of thy attire:

And in the distance to thy vision brightly

Gleam happy homes beyond this land of graves,

As airy domes and towers at sunset lightly

Rise from Sicilian waves.

When History, her task but ill-achieving,

Fails some far epoch faintly to illume,

Her thread the muse, like Ariadne weaving,

Conducts us through the gloom.

She fronts the sun—and on the purple ridges

The virgin Future lifts her veil of snow—

Looks westward, and an arch of splendor bridges

The gulf of Long Ago.

She speaks, and, lo! Italian sunlight flashes

Over the dark expanse of northern skies—

Death hears her thrilling cry, and cold, gray ashes

Take mortal shape, and rise.

When factions vex a state, and new abuses

Bring to her drooping banner-fold disgrace,

And Mind, forgetful of its nobler uses,

Grows sensual and base—

When the gray fathers of a nation falter,

Muffling their faces for the funeral knell.

A lightning-flash, from her poetic altar;

The darkness can dispel.

Then honored be the Bard!—a heavenly mansion

Alone could be the birth-place of an Art

That gives to deathless intellect expansion,

And purifies the heart.

* * * * *

THE LADY OF THE ROCK.

A LEGEND OF NEW ENGLAND.

BY MISS M. J. WINDLE.

(_Continued from page 255._)

CHAPTER X.

The sun was slowly sinking to the west

Pavilioned with a thousand glorious dyes;

The turtle-doves were winging to the nest,

Along the mountain’s soft declivities.

CROLEY.

YOUNG STANLEY’S congratulations that he alone knew of the communication

held by Lucy Ellet and her sister with the mysterious creature whom he

had seen, were not destined to be of long duration. The lady of the

vapor was soon beheld by various other persons of the village at

different times—and the _Haunted Rock_ became an object of universal

dread. The rumor, moreover, speedily grew rife that the object of her

visitations was to hold unholy intercourse with the young nieces of the

governor of the colony. These, therefore, from having been the idols of

all classes in the place, became subjects of curiosity and vague

apprehension.

Superstition, when not arrayed in her full horrors, had charms which

makes us regret her banishment in a state of society enlightened by

reason and education. Her system of imaginary terrors had something

exciting to minds fond of feeding upon the marvelous. This is especially

true with regard to the lighter forms in which she sometimes appeared

when fortune-tellers were introduced as part of the amusements of the

age, and their auguries regarded as serious and prophetic earnest. But

as we have seen, none of the lighter forms by which imagination works

upon her subjects were here indulged as the food of a wild and wayward

fancy. Their belief, though not less erroneous, was founded on the

records of that page which cannot lie, and which warned them of the

existence of one great and mighty spirit of evil, wandering to and fro

in the earth, and seeking to decoy the souls of mankind to his abode of

darkness. The object of this dread was no other than he who had once

stood high in Heaven, and afterward became prince of the powers of Hell.

Recollecting that the wiles of this same adversary practiced upon the

mother of our race, had become the means of expelling her from the

bowers of Paradise, and bringing “death into the world and all our wo,”

it is not surprising that Lucy and Jessy Ellet were now regarded with

suspicion on all hands. The gossips, like the sybils, after consulting

their leaves, arranged and combined their information, which passed

through a hundred channels, and in a hundred different varieties in the

village of L. The rumors to which their communications gave rise were

strange and inconsistent. The result was that the society of the sisters

became as much avoided as it had been previously sought after. Closer

observation, however, caused the chief blame to rest upon Lucy, who was

seen daily, at sunrise and sunset, wending her way to the haunted spot.

It was some weeks after Stanley’s first sight of the phantom lady that

twilight overtook him on an evening ramble. He had carefully, since the

time we have described, avoided bending his steps toward that vicinity

in any of his walks. Accordingly, on this evening, he had turned off at

the outskirts of the village, at a place where another road met that

leading to the fearful spot. Having been occupied with reflections of a

deeper cast than are common to youths, he had remained until the slow

departing sunset reminded him to retrace his steps. On approaching the

place where the two roads met, he was startled by the sight of a light

figure emerging into the main path. The thought of the strange lady of

the mist instantly suggested itself to the mind of the youth. A new moon

had just risen behind the dim embodiment, and shed her soft rays upon

the spot where it stood. The last beams of the setting sun were almost

lost beyond the distant hills, and nothing but the soft light of that

evening-queen lit the scene.

Stanley advanced to meet the spectral shape—it turned—a pair of dark

eyes flashed from beneath a silken hood, and the clear voice of Lucy

Ellet sounded in his ears.

“Well met, Master Frank Stanley,” it said; “you have avoided me of late,

as have all our villagers.”

“After what I have been witness to, Miss Lucy,” began Stanley—

“Believe me, Frank, the interview you beheld between myself and the Lady

of the Rock was pure as the intercourse above.”

“I beseech you, Lucy Ellet,” exclaimed the youth, earnestly, and not

heeding her words, “for your own soul’s sake, for your young sister’s

sake, cease these suspicious visits to yonder mysterious spot!”

“Oblige me, then, in relieving me of my duty toward that unhappy lady,

by assuming the task hitherto performed by myself, and I will go thither

no more.”

“I would do aught but perjure my own soul, to have thee and thy sister

reinstated in the opinion of our little community, to say nothing of

saving ye both from future destruction. Yet,” continued he, “if I also

must hold frequent converse with that visionary form, I dare not—”

“Out on thee, Frank,” interrupted the young lady, “I had thought thee a

brave youth, afraid of nothing but sin.”

“And is it not sin to hold constant speech with a spirit-messenger of

Satan?” inquired the boy.

“I will request thee to have no speech of her; I would merely depute you

to bear, morning and evening, a little basket resembling this, (and she

drew one from beneath her shawl,) place it on the rock—wait until the

unknown lady appears to remove it, and replace it with another—then

return to the village. Do this to oblige me, Frank, and save me the

necessity I shall otherwise be under of continuing the visits so

execrated. More confidence I cannot put in you at present; but will you

not have faith that I would not instigate you to the performance of an

act that was otherwise than noble.”

“Lucy Ellet,” said Stanley, looking on her steadily, “there is that in

your manner and your words which shows me that you are actuated by some

generous principle in this singular affair. What this mystery may be,

time must prove. I will do your errand.”

“The Lord reward you,” replied Miss Ellet. “The basket, then, shall be

placed under the large willow-tree at the end of your father’s orchard,

that we may not seem to have any connection in regard to it. You must

always replace on the same spot the one you will receive at the rock;

and I will cause it to be removed and replenished in time to have it

there again ready for your next visit. But here we are within the

village,” added Lucy, “and had better not be seen together, lest it

might excite suspicion. You will find a circuitous path to the rock in

yonder direction,” she continued, pointing to the left, “and had better

use it in your excursions, that you may be the more likely to escape

notice.” So saying, and without giving the youth time to reply, Lucy

parted from Stanley, and soon after turned into her uncle’s house.

The boy proceeded on his way with an undefinable sentiment of approval

in his bosom. Some instinct had prompted him, notwithstanding all his

preconceived notions of horror at the abandonment of the young Ellets to

the power of the Lady of the Rock, to accede to Lucy’s proposal that he

would supply her place in her daily visits to that mysterious being; and

so far from feeling any reproaches of conscience in remembering that he

had given her his promise to that effect, he rather enjoyed all the

elation of spirit experienced by one who generously sacrifices himself

to suspicion for a noble cause. Something in Lucy Ellet’s manner

convinced him that feelings of the same kind had actuated her conduct in

this strange affair, and he thought of her now more with admiration than

with reproach. “Yet what,” said he to himself, startled at the change a

half an hour had wrought in his views, “if this approbation of myself

and Miss Ellet be only a suggestion of the arch tempter to place me in

his power?” But no, the idea was dismissed in a moment as incompatible

with his feelings of satisfaction in what he had pledged himself to

undertake.

Stanley rose at sunrise on the following morning, for the purpose of

commencing the fulfillment of his promise. Seeking the willow-tree in

the garden, he found the little basket prepared for him, and assuming

the charge of it, set out upon his walk. He speedily turned into the

winding path indicated by Lucy Ellet, and pursued his way. The morning

beams were just breaking, and their light glanced upon the dewy grass

beneath his feet, and caused it to sparkle as though his tread were upon

myriads of diamonds. The waking birds were chanting their matin lays,

and the insects humming in every brake and dingle. Every thing gave

promise of one of those days in the latter end of May when spring seems

resolved to triumph over summer, by contrasting her superiority in

beauty and freshness with that sultry season so soon to appear, at the

same time that she might almost vie with the latter in the genial heat

of her noontide sun.

But the balmy morning and the day it presaged were alike lost on our

hero, whose mind was filled with reflections concerning his singular

mission. He walked on, rapt in thought, till he approached the foot of

the hills. He there paused, despite his conclusions of the previous

evening, overpowered with a doubtful feeling regarding his errand. He

was about to minister to the shadowy spirit whom he had twice beheld

upon that insecure summit. What fearful spells might she not weave

around him by thus doing her will? He ascended a short distance, and

turned to look behind him. A scene of more complete solitude, having all

its peculiarities heightened by the serenity of the weather, the quiet

composure of the atmosphere, and the perfect stillness of the elements,

could hardly be imagined. He could descry nothing of the scenes he had

left, save the valley beneath him, and the spire of the village church

in the distance. Should he return home or proceed? He remembered his

promise to Miss Ellet, and again applied himself to continue his ascent.

He drew near the ominous spot—climbed a few steps higher—touched the

rock, and placed the basket upon its base.

Slowly and gradually appeared the form of the lady of the mist. It was

not without something like alarm that Stanley beheld this mysterious

being standing close beside him. She had been about to speak, but seeing

the boy, cast her beautiful azure eyes on him with a look of surprise,

exchanged the basket for another, and with a pensive smile, disappeared

from his view.

Had all the spells he had dreaded in his approach to the spot been

concentrated in that look and smile, the change in the feelings of young

Stanley could not have been more instantaneous. Surprise succeeded to

his former superstitious sentiments of awe, for he had discovered that

the Lady of the Mist was no vague embodiment as he had deemed, but a

gentle shape of human flesh and blood. Where or how she had vanished,

however, was still a mystery; but he was so overpowered with a sense of

his discovery, that he turned to descend without attempting to make any

investigation, and reached the village to encounter a day of great

agitation.